Holmes and Tyler are Dead
by TheWheelWeaves
Summary: The stars are going out. Who better to call to save the universe than Rose Tyler and Sherlock Holmes. Follows directly after Stars Will Fall in This Rose is Extra. A RoseLock crossover between BBC's Sherlock and Doctor Who.
1. Yesterday's News

**Here it is, my dearest readers. The next in the saga of Rose Tyler and Sherlock Holmes known locally as This Rose is Extra.**

**Because this is the first author's note of a new story, I have some things that must be said:**

**First and foremost, this is a MATURE story. There are scary things going to happen, possibly triggering things, and there are going to be relationship things that happen as well. I am saying this now, because I don't want anyone confused later: Rose Tyler and Sherlock Holmes are ADULTS, and thus have an ADULT relationship. That does not simply mean that they have sex (they do... or they will... later), but that they have fights, misunderstandings, and things do not always go happily between them. If you're here for a happy, fluffy love story, I fear you may wish to search elsewhere. I don't want you to go, but I also don't want you to be unhappy.**

**Second, this story IS complete. Every word is written, and I will update daily to the best of my abilities. That said, I do actually have a life, a job, a husband, a family, and a younger sister who recently appointed me her Matron of Honour for her wedding in the spring. I will try to update daily, but there are possibly going to be days that I am not able to do so, and I apologize profusely in advance.**

**Third, there are some people that I must thank.**

**Wholockgal: You are my inspiration and my dearest love (don't tell Hubby). Thank you for seeing me through this horrible, horrible story, and for loving me even when I was impossible. Happy birthday, gorgeous!**

**SquirrelWho: Thank you for introducing all of us to this most wonderful of ships!**

**LaylaCrimson and Veritascara, the girls who chat: Thank you for all of the support, the ideas, and all of the fun. I'm so honoured to have met you both through this very strange hobby of mine, but I wouldn't have it any other way! Happy birthday, Veritascara. I hope your present is everything you hoped it would be.**

**And, finally, to my Hubby (who is unlikely to read this anyway): Thank you for putting up with me when all of the people mentioned above could shut their computers and walk away. You're stuck with me, and you seem happy about it almost every day, and I love you very much for it.**

**Fourth: those of you who have read this series know that I generally swim in the Sherlock canon, changing things for my own ends and leaving Doctor Who in peace, or have in the past. That is not the case with this story where we dive head-first into Doctor Who. If you are a Whovian who does not like seeing canon changed, this may not be the story for you.**

**And, finally, Fifth-no-Fourth. To you, my readers. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing and inspiring me to write. It wouldn't exist if you didn't love it so, in the end, this one is for you.**

**Please enjoy.**

* * *

The newsagent shop across the street from the Cardiff Visitor's Center had just taken delivery of the day's papers when a black SUV drove down the quiet, early-morning street. The proprietor glanced over the top of his paper at the vehicle, and then returned to his perusal of the day's news. Some bloke called Sherlock Holmes had been pushed off a building by the Vitex heiress in London the previous morning, and that was a bit more interesting than the beginning of the day's traffic at that moment.

Had he continued to watch, he would have seen a young, well-built black man dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a black coat get out of the car and wander into the Visitor's Center. Had he been watching particularly carefully, he might have seen the doors to the back of the vehicle open. Had he any psychic skill or been particularly intelligent, he might even have seen a pretty blonde woman and a tall, dark-haired man get out of the car as well, but then he would have blinked and they would have been gone. Had he seen them, he would have convinced himself in moments that he had not.

He didn't see them, however. He read about Sherlock Holmes' death while the man himself and his killer walked hand-in-hand through the door to the Visitor's Center that was held for them by Mickey Smith.

Even if a genius of Sherlock Holmes' caliber had been walking down the street, or an un-realized psychic servant girl who might have seen the two people, they would simply have shaken their heads and moved on. Because, no matter what their eyes told them, they had not seen a dead man and his killer walk into the Cardiff Visitor's Center. Because this was Cardiff, and that sort of thing didn't happen here. Because nothing ever happened in Cardiff.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose, Mickey and Sherlock were silent when they got into the elevator together. They'd talked the entire way from London and now they seemed to have nothing left to say. All three were exhausted and emotionally drained.

Rose had explained her kidnapping at Moriarty's hands. She had watched both men tense as she explained that she had been drugged and kept handcuffed, but both were clearly relieved that she had not been physically harmed. As she described the pseudo-sexual nature of his interest in her, however, Rose had watched an ugly look suffuse Sherlock's face. She laid her hand over his to catch his attention. He turned to her, dark eyed, face as still as a mask hiding all emotion.

"He's dead, Sherlock," she'd said quietly. "He can't hurt anyone anymore, and he didn't hurt me."

Sherlock's emotionless mask had not broken, but he had turned his hand over in hers and squeezed. She left her fingers wrapped around his as she continued to tell the story. She explained about Moriarty taking her to the roof of St. Bart's, about planting the inertia device on Sherlock when she'd kissed him goodbye, and about throwing him off the roof of the hospital before John Watson's disbelieving eyes.

She stumbled as she tried to explain what happened next.

"Then I… he… well, I was threatening him," she stuttered out frowning slightly into her lap. "And then… well, I'm not entirely sure what happened, but he suddenly died. Just keeled over with that mad grin still on his face. Honestly, I'm not sure why."

"It don't matter," Mickey said from the front, shaking his head. "He's gone an' that's the important thing, right?"

"Yeah," Rose said quietly. She turned her head to glance up at Sherlock who was giving her a strange look. She gave him a half-smile, which he failed to return, and asked, "what about you, Sherlock? I know how I ended up on that rooftop, so how did you?"

Sherlock gave Rose a long look and silence reigned in the car for over a minute. Mickey glanced back once, but the tension in the backseat was palpable and he did not get involved. Sherlock continued to look at Rose with that closed-off, unreadable expression that he had. She met his eyes and held herself still and non-threatening as though he might be inclined to lash out if intimidated. After a time where Rose could not determine what was going on in his mind, Sherlock's aesthetic face softened and he squeezed Rose's hand and turned forward to begin telling his story. Rose smiled slightly once his eyes were off of her. Whatever fight or fear that had been lurking behind his eyes was vanquished and the man that she had come to know and care deeply for was back in his face.

Sherlock told Mickey and Rose about the kidnapping case that had been staged by Moriarty; about following the clues like breadcrumbs and being led down the path to social and personal ruin that had led to the rooftop of St. Bart's hospital where Sherlock had fully intended to take his own life to save John, Rose, Greg and Martha.

"And then Rose kissed me and shoved me off the roof," he concluded laconically.

"Like your dreams then, right, Rose?" Mickey asked from the front.

"Yeah, bit…" Rose hedged

Sherlock turned and pinned her with that sharp, star-flecked gaze at which he so excelled. "Dreams?" he queried.

Rose sighed. She hadn't had time to mention this to Sherlock and didn't know how he'd take it. "Well..." she began, "about the time we got to Cardiff I... well... I started having these dreams. I saw you... and... the Doctor. You were both there. And... I saw you fall. And the Doctor. You were both dead." Rose couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes, and she had removed her hand from his as she spoke. "And... well... there was this voice. Repeated the same words over and over. Said 'stars will fall, save them, Bad Wolf.' And see... Bad Wolf is me." Rose glanced up out of the corner of her eye to see Sherlock watching her, expressionless, again. "Didn't you wonder how Molly knew to set you up with that squash ball and blood? I asked her to. I knew I could save you but I thought... well... I wondered... I guess you'd call it... maybe instinct? I thought that maybe you'd need to be dead. And I was right... well... kind of. You had to die to save John."

Sherlock finally cut off Rose's ramble. "What does Bad Wolf mean?"

"You haven't told him about Bad Wolf?" Mickey asked in shock from the front.

"Of course I've told him about Bad Wolf, Mick, I just didn't tell him the name," Rose said, exasperatedly. She turned back to Sherlock whose face still held no clear emotions, though she could read curiosity and anticipation behind his eyes. "I told you about swallowing the time vortex and destroying the Daleks, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, a creature that can do that isn't precisely human. I... we... it named itself... ourselves... well... It was me and the TARDIS both who made it, and the new creature was called Bad Wolf. That creature is impossibly powerful and, more importantly, impossibly dangerous. She saved the Doctor's life, and killed him at the same time." Rose glanced again at Sherlock through her lashes. She wasn't sure what expression she wanted to see on his face, but the return of his emotionless mask was the last one she'd have chosen. She looked away and swallowed the urge to keep babbling. The Doctor would have done- filled the silence with words to avoid the discomfort of the emotions, but Rose fancied herself a bit more mature than the millennia-old alien with whom she'd traveled.

Finally, Sherlock filled the silence. "You saved me, like the dream said."

Rose glanced at him again, but his expression had not altered so she merely nodded.

"And the Doctor?" Sherlock queried.

"I left London because we found an anomaly in the Medusa Cascade," Rose said, her voice taking on the quality of the Torchwood Debrief rather than normal conversational tones. "It's beyond standard Earth telescopes to view at this point, but it's spreading and soon it'll be a panic here on Earth. Stars are going out." She glanced at him, and saw him looking at her with a blank expression. She sighed- his disinterest with the workings of the greater universe was one of the hottest points of contention in their relationship.

"Don't stars go out all the time, one way or another, and what's this to do with anything?" Sherlock asked

"They do, but not like this. When a star burns out, there are hundreds, even thousands of years of warning, and something is left- debris, gas, clouds, and a bit of a path of destruction. This is an entire section of the sky that had stars and planets and galaxies in it, and now it doesn't. It has nothing in it. And that's impossible."

Sherlock looked at her, surprised. Rose hated the word 'impossible' and never used it, if she could avoid it.

"No it isn't," Mickey said from the front seat, echoing Sherlock's own idea (if it can be observed, it must not be impossible). "It's just very very bad news."

"Honestly," Rose said, darkly, "we'd be better off if it _was_ impossible. What it is are Daleks, and Daleks are worse. And we can't deal with them by ourselves, so we have to find a way into the old universe and find the Doctor. He'll have to come and tell us how to fight them. Once we find him and save him, he'll have to help."

"Our scientists are working on what we're calling a Dimension Cannon," Mickey put in from the front seat. "Basically going to shoot Rose and me at the wall between the universes, punch a hole through, and we'll come out on the other side, where the Doctor is."

"You're going to punch a hole in the wall of the universe to find the Doctor?" Sherlock reiterated, looking at Rose.

"Yes," she said, defiantly.

An unspoken question hung between Rose and Sherlock, heavy in the air. It might have been 'and what will you do then, once you've found the Doctor again?' It might have been 'are you looking for him _just_ because you need him to save the universe?' It might have been 'will you come back to me once you find him?' It could even have been 'did you allow your life as you know it to end in this universe so that you could stay in the other one with the man you've loved since your youth?'

None of those questions were asked, however.

The planet Neptune's discovery is commonly attributed to Johann Galle in 1846. He was the first man to see it through a telescope. This attribution is not entirely accurate, however. French mathematician Alexis Bouvard posited the position of Neptune during his life, which ended in 1843. He observed the orbit of Uranus and posited a planet that could not yet be seen based on the effect of the invisible upon the surrounding bodies. This was the nature of the Doctor on Sherlock and Rose. He was rarely spoken of save in passing yet his undeniable existence bent their relationship around it as each participant avoided putting a foot, a hand, or a word wrong on the alien's volatile and invisible presence. Their relationship was new enough that the strain was not yet evident, but it would be.

Rose spoke of the Doctor only occasionally as a long-held defense mechanism. When first she had landed in this universe, she had spoken of him and her plans to get back to him constantly, making her mother and Mickey worry. After finding his projection on a windy beach in Norway, she had stopped. Even the words "the Doctor" had been like a knife between her ribs. She had grown out of that pain, but the habit of not speaking of the Doctor was now long-held and difficult to break.

Sherlock did not think of the Doctor if he could avoid it. Though he and Rose had spoken at length about their youths, their lives, and their families, though Rose knew nearly all of his stories (through dedicated questioning) save the very specifics of his times in drug rehabilitation facilities (which were too horrible for him to discuss with her or anyone), though Rose had given him every opportunity to determine anything he wanted about her and her alien friend, Sherlock had chosen to leave that aspect of her life a mystery.

Until she turned 19, he knew her stories. He knew that she had dropped out of school at 16 for a no-account boyfriend who had left her in debt and hit her. He knew that she had fallen into a relationship with Mickey thoughtlessly- they'd always been friends, then one night a year or so after things had ended with Jimmy Stone, they'd been at the pub, drinking and having a laugh, and after too many beers, they'd fallen into bed together. It was good, and felt comfortable, so they'd become an item without much consideration. It had been an easy, nearly unspoken thing, and had deteriorated slowly until the day that Rose had run away with a stranger in a blue box that could travel in all of time and space and they had both been confronted with the reality of their relationship's disintegration.

He knew of Rose landing in this universe, of her mother and step-father meeting and falling in love, of her mourning, and of her fight to return, and of her acceptance that she could not.

All that he did not know was the time in-between. Between the day that she had entered the last TARDIS in the multiverse, and the day she had nearly fallen into the dark place between the universes.

Sherlock simply did not ask. To ask would be to invite answers. To ask would lead, inevitably, to the question 'if the Doctor found his way to you, or you to him, would you go?' Sherlock could not ask that question, though Rose had once asked it of him. To have her answer 'no,' and solidify the strange, difficult, and amorphous thing that was between them (despite the fact that he could now get out the word 'girlfriend' without choking on it, the association of Rose Tyler and Sherlock Holmes was an unusual one), would be nearly as difficult for Sherlock as her answering 'yes.' He avoided the question, much as another man (though not a human) in another universe would have done.

But Sherlock did not know that.

There were many things that Sherlock should have said at this point, but what he did say was "I'm coming with you."

"No," Rose said, shortly at the same time that Mickey said, "that's not a bad idea."

"Rose," Mickey said, exasperatedly, "we've been talking about the benefits of a three-man team for weeks now!"

"And if we need a third man we'll get someone who's Torchwood trained," Rose responded.

"I can be trained," Sherlock argued.

"Torchwood training takes a year," Rose responded, dismissively.

"And I'm one of the smartest men in Britain, possibly the world." This assertion set Mickey to sniggering and caused Rose to glare at them both.

"What is involved in Torchwood training? Knowledge and understanding of aliens?" Sherlock looked pointedly at Rose, who continued to glare at him. He continued regardless. "Eidetic memory." He tapped his temple and raised a single eyebrow at her. "I can memorize facts in a fraction of the time that other people can. Firearms? Crack shot. Hand-to-hand combat? I know several martial arts."

"No," she said, defiantly.

"Rose," Mickey said, holding out the vowel with a tone that said she was being unreasonable.

"This universe needs Sherlock Holmes," Rose exploded at the two men. "All of the universes need Sherlock Holmes. He's legend!"

"But I told you Rose, he died," Mickey said.

"Oh, and that helps, does it?" she cried, voice slipping into the cadences of her youth with her frustration.

"The literary Sherlock Holmes died?" Sherlock frowned at Mickey, not sure how to take this fact.

"In one of the books, I feel sure that he died," Mickey confirmed. "But for some reason I feel like maybe he retired. I remember something about bees. God, I don't really remember, honestly, maybe I'm thinking of a different book series entirely."

"There's no way that Sherlock Holmes died at age 33!" Rose was nearly shouting in her frustration at this point. "He's always portrayed in his 50s at a minimum!"

"Artistic license," Mickey suggested, maintaining his calm even as Rose's was stripped away. "You were going to ask for volunteers anyway, Rose," he continued. "Looks like you've got one."

"It's too dangerous!" Rose exploded at Mickey. She turned to Sherlock, eyes sparkling over-bright. "We don't know how it's going to work," she admitted to the detective, voice shaking. "The Doctor himself said it was impossible. The jump might kill us. We might end up stuck on the wrong side of the void in the wrong place and time and render all of this useless. We could end up in the wrong universe entirely. We could get there and get killed. We could get there too late and find that there isn't a universe left to save."

Sherlock shook his head and extended a hand to cup her cheek. "You forget, Rose Tyler," he said softly, his deep voice causing her to shut her eyes against the tears that she would not allow to fall, "that I am already dead. Who better, then, to sacrifice to the saving of the universe than a man who is dead and the woman whose life is over because she killed him?"

Rose gave a small sigh, but did not open her eyes. Sherlock could tell that he was getting through to her, however.

"You have empirical evidence," he continued, "of the multiverse theory, time travel, and aliens. You can't expect me to pass up an opportunity to investigate all of that, can you?"

Rose's eyes still remained closed, but he could see the slightest twitch of her lips into the tiniest of smiles at that.

"If it is a question of training, train me," he ordered.

"Dr. Freeman's earliest estimate for the first jump gives us another two weeks, Rose," Mickey agreed from the front seat. "Bet ol' brainy here can pick up the majority of what he needs to know in that time."

This time, the lift to the right side of Rose's lips was distinct. Sherlock pretended that he did not feel the tug of resentment in his heart at the fact that Mickey had always been able to coax a smile from Rose so much easier than he, Sherlock, could.

Sherlock opened his mouth one last time, for one last attempt. He was not sure what he would say, had no more logical arguments to provide. His head was out of the game, but his heart cried out to her to let him help her, let him protect her, for her not to leave him behind. He might have begged.

He was, however, saved from this humiliation by Rose's eyes popping open and meeting his. Sherlock's mouth snapped closed as she looked at him.

"Fine," she sighed, dramatically. "If the only two people in this universe whose opinions I trust more than my own will insist on badgering me, then I suppose needs must. You start training bright and early tomorrow. Mick will do weapons, since I won't carry anything lethal." Her voice had returned to the briskness of her position and her eyes had left his. "Dr. Freeman or possibly Tosh will go over the alien and temporal physics information that'll be necessary."

Sherlock nodded, then he noticed what was missing. "And the hand-to-hand combat? Who will train me on that?"

From the front seat, Mickey laughed. Rose gave Sherlock a smile that had a secret hidden behind it as well.

"That, Mr. Holmes, is my area of expertise," she said, grinning.

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**A/N: Many of you who know me and have followed my stories in the past know that I usually update at first light. That will not happen tomorrow as I will be in the middle of nowhere, without my computer, until late. There will be an update tomorrow, barring something catastrophic happening, but not until the evening.**

**If you want to know what I'm up to when I'm not updating, I totally don't recommend following me on Tumblr. I'm pretty strange. If you're into that sort of thing, however, my handle is AsTheWheelWills.**


	2. Judge and Jury

**I survived another very trying weekend (camping again, and a family reunion, and my sister's engagement announcement). I'm home and so, even though it's late and I'll post another first thing tomorrow, ****I present, for your amusement, another chapter of Holmes and Tyler are Dead, in which some very interesting things happen.**

**The thanks for the chapter titles is laid fully at the feet of WhoLockGal, who is the cleverest of beta babes.**

**I am already behind in answering reviews... hopefully that will happen in the next day or so.**

**Please enjoy. Read, Review, and Recommend!**

* * *

Torchwood: Cardiff boasted five rooms for the use of the staff. Originally intended to be used by agents visiting from out of town and only staying a night or two, or local staff who needed to stay the night inside the Hub, "room" was an extremely generous term. "Cell" would have suited the space better.

Hardly bigger than a standard office cubicle, approximately two metres square, it had grey walls, a narrow bed carved out of one wall, a desk, a chair, and barely enough room remaining for Sherlock to turn on the spot. Rose and Mickey had been living in this environment for six weeks now. He wondered that the two of them had not run gibbering into the night. He shared one wall with Rose, one with the communal shower, and one with the med bay. On Rose's other side was Mickey's cell.

Sherlock abandoned the claustrophobic little room. He knocked on the reinforced steel panel that made the door of Rose's room. He might have walked straight in, but the doors automatically locked with a hexadecimal code the moment they were closed. Rose had handed him a slip of paper with a string of ten numbers and letters on it, told him to memorize, and removed it from his hand after 30 seconds (20 of which he hadn't needed). She had not volunteered the code to her room, and Sherlock had not asked.

The gears that moved the doors ground together as Rose's door began to open. Once it had finished, Sherlock stood open-mouthed at the vision before him. Rose Tyler stood in a short violet-coloured dressing gown that barely came to the middle of her thigh. Her bleached hair was pulled into a messy twist on the top of her head and secured with a large red plastic clip. Her makeup- what was left of it after spending several days confined- was still in place, though Sherlock presumed that she was about to remove it. His eyes drifted down the pretty, silky bathrobe, dwelling for a heartbeat at the deep dip between her breasts and the play of the hem at the top of her thighs. It was short enough that it would only just cover the swell of her bottom, Sherlock was quite sure. His eyes drifted the rest of the way down her long, pale legs to her pink-nailed toes.

"Sherlock!" Rose cried in surprise.

He dragged his eyes back up her legs and body, finally landing on her face again. "I knocked," he stuttered, noticing that, despite the fact that she held herself still- did not tug the hem of her robe or cross her arms over her chest to hide herself from his eyes- a pretty pink blush was rising in her cheeks.

"Figured you were Mick," she admitted. Sherlock swallowed down the slight irritation that she would answer the door for Mickey dressed like this, but was embarrassed to have done so for him. She continued, "was going to tell him to sod off. He knows I have to shower after a car trip or I can't function, and it's been since Saturday since I washed, so it's particularly important now."

"Right," Sherlock said vaguely. Had anyone asked, he might have blamed his current inarticulateness on his own exhaustion- he had been awake for nearly 48 hours running to this point- but a voice that sounded a bit like a laughing John Watson in the back of his mind pointed out that he'd often gone this long without sleep without a pronounced decrease in eloquence. The voice instead pointed out Rose's dishabille and suggested that it was _this_ that had him tongue-tied.

"So…" Rose held the vowel for a few moments, but when Sherlock didn't respond, she continued, "I'm going to go have a bath, if that's all right. Something you needed from me? You knocked." She grinned at him, letting her tongue come between her teeth, and Sherlock very nearly gasped at the effect of that smile when she was only barely dressed.

"Tea!" Sherlock expulsed, forcing himself to think his way past the way Rose was dressed. "Or coffee," he added, modulating his volume to a more normal level. "Coffee would be better, actually. I haven't slept in awhile and I'd like to begin my training as quickly as possible. Probably not the physical training until after some sleep, but I'd like to begin looking at the data that I'll need to know." He was babbling. He had to get himself under control. Rose was wearing a knowing smirk, and Sherlock had an idea that he was not as subtle about his distraction as he might like to be.

"The break room is the best we have as far as a kitchen goes," Rose answered, not addressing Sherlock's discomfiture. "There's a microwave, coffee machine, kettle, hot plate, the usual. Nothing for a gourmet chef, but it's enough for me and Mick- neither of us cook much." She gave him a smile that he did not quite manage to return, then changed the subject. "What's the time?"

Sherlock withdrew his phone from his pocket. "Six-thirty," he answered after checking.

"Right," she said, briskly. "Staff'll start showing up around seven, and everyone'll be in by nine. Morning debrief at nine-thirty, you're welcome to sit in on that. We'll get you that information for your training, but we'll have to deal with some administrative issues before that, not the least of which is the fact that you don't have any clothes, and you can't exactly go shopping for them, being dead. Actually, there's a lot of downsides to being dead. No using your mobile phone, for starters," she said, snatching the device from his hand.

Sherlock frowned. Since he had gotten the thing, he'd never really been without his mobile.

Rose read his look of distress and smiled again. "We'll come up with something, but a dead man's cell phone should be turned off. Can't get signal in the hub anyway," she added off-handedly. "Look, just go get your coffee, I'll shower, and we'll figure out what we have to do next once we're both a bit more awake." With that she pushed past him and sashayed down the hallway to the showers.

Sherlock had been right. The robe barely covered her backside.

He shook his head and made his way to the break room. He put together coffee in the machine and as he waited for it to brew, he sat at the table, stretched his legs out in front of him, rested his chin on this steepled fingers and closed his eyes for a moment.

He was in the courtroom of his mind, the place where he made decisions, judged, and was judged. He stood in the defendant's position and Mycroft stood in the place of judgment.

"You are called up on charges of the seven deadly sins," Mycroft began in the pugnacious tone he used for chastising Sherlock. "Sloth, for not chasing down Moriarty's network. Wrath for losing your temper with your brother. Envy of the Doctor, Mickey, and anyone else in the life of Rose Tyler. Pride that you and only you will be capable of protecting Rose Tyler. Greed of her time. Gluttony of her company. And, finally, Lust for her body. How do you plead?"

"Guilty to all charges," Sherlock answered quietly.

"Have you any defense?"

"He has," this was John Watson's voice, coloured by the smile he so often had when Sherlock was forced to confront his own heart. Sherlock turned to see his best friend, dressed in jumper and dark trousers, sitting at the desk that would hold Sherlock's barrister.

"Please proceed," Judge Mycroft allowed.

"You call it sloth that he will not go after Moriarty's network, but what good is it to take down an evil man if the universe hangs in the balance. Like sweeping the floor while the house burns down, don't you think?" John grinned, but Mycroft did not look amused. "His wrath is what will keep him alert as they run dangers, and his pride is not misplaced. He will keep Rose safe."

"And why are you so certain of that?"

John smirked at Mycroft, then turned and winked at Sherlock. "I think we all know the answer to that."

"And what of the other charges? Envy, Greed, Gluttony and Lust?"

"For Greed, and gluttony, there is no need to speak." This time it was Mickey who stood in Sherlock's defense. "Rose Tyler offered her time and her company freely. Sherlock is welcome to both."

"And yet he takes what is offered in excess of what is logical."

"Yeah," Mickey said with a grin. "And there's a good reason for that. But if Rose doesn't mind, you shouldn't either, and believe you me, she'll tell you if she minds."

"And on the charges of Envy and Lust?"

"On those, he's guilty as sin." Sherlock turned sharply to see that Rose herself was now his defense, lounging in the seat and grinning up at him with her tongue resting against her top teeth. She turned back to Mycroft and continued, "this trial is completely stupid though. He may be guilty of any or all of those things to various degrees, but they're not the point. They're not crimes." She rose and strode to the foot of the judge's podium. "They're just the side effects, the symptoms of the real disease. Have you deduced it yet?" She turned to Sherlock. "What about you, Sherlock Holmes, greatest detective in any universe? Have you figured it out?" When Sherlock and Mycroft remained silent, Rose smiled again. "Of course not. It's probably the only arithmetic you two can't do. Not enough experience, eh?" She laughed quietly. "I'll tell you then, will I? It's simple enough if you know where to look. The only thing that Sherlock Holmes is guilty of is falling in love."

Sherlock opened his eyes. The clock over the coffee machine showed that not even a full minute had passed. Thirty seconds to the greatest, most horribly terrifying and exhilarating deduction that he had ever made.

He was in love with Rose Tyler.

He had no idea what he was going to do.


	3. Death Notices

**Yesterday's chapter only went up a few hours ago, but here is today's as well! Yesterday's was short anyway, right?**

**The beginning might be a bit Adult... not quite NSFW, but I suppose it depends on what kind of place you work.**

**I must give all thanks and love to Veritascara for the cover... she made it for me because she is beyond awesome and I love her!**

**I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The water sluiced over Rose's tired form as she tried to force her mind to work on important matters- the stars going out, the dimension cannon, Sherlock's decision to come with her across the void. Her exhaustion (just under three days in Moriarty's company handcuffed to a chair was hardly restful) caused her mind to wander, however, and it wandered to the way that Sherlock had looked at her when she had opened the door of her room to stand before him, barely clothed. The memory of the heat in his eyes made her flush, and she reached over to turn down the temperature on her shower.

She knew that she should be thinking about all of the work that would be necessary to help Sherlock live with being dead for the time that he would have to do so, but in the quiet solitude of the bath, Rose's mind acknowledged that she was concerned about crossing the void and coming face-to-face with the Doctor with Sherlock at her side.

Despite her objections in the car, she could think of no one better suited to crossing the void with her, even Mickey. Sherlock's mind was quick and logical and he would be no end of help in the problem-solving that was so endemic to traveling through time and space. He also possessed the capacity for imagination that would make the leaps of intuition and creativity that would also be necessary easy for him. He was, as he said, a crack shot, strong and quick. Save for Mickey, Rose could think of no one that she would rather have at her back than Sherlock.

No, her concerns were entirely domestic. Rose smiled as the word rang in her head with a Manc accent, coming from a well-loved face that was just a bit daft. In the sanctuary of her shower, Rose could admit to herself that she did not know how she would react when she saw her Doctor again. Sherlock was here, he was human, he was brilliant and damaged and he had but one life to live and seemed content, at least for the moment, to spend it with her. And she was similarly content, for the moment, to spend hers with him. Two months prior, she might have even said that she was more than content- she was thrilled to consider spending the rest of her life with the non-fictional detective. But she could not be sure that seeing the Doctor, in all of his pinstriped, gravity-defying hair and brilliantly alien glory would not make her reassess her feelings for Sherlock.

Rose would like to believe that she wasn't so fickle as all that anymore, but she could confess to herself that she did not know for certain.

She thought of the Doctor. Of the one in leather with the big ears, gunmetal eyes and the kind of brilliant smile that could make her weak at the knees. Of the tactile one in a tie who grinned, as she did, with his tongue at the edge of his teeth just begging to be nipped with her own teeth.

Then she thought of Sherlock with his large, elegant hands that were never still. She thought of the way that he would draw his fingers over her skin in restless patterns as they sat together. She thought of the time that she had fallen asleep beside him on the sofa, watching a film, and she had woken to find him, marker in hand, solving chemical equations across her abdomen, having rucked her shirt up to just beneath her breasts to expose the flesh of her stomach. She had insisted that he subject himself to the same treatment. She had made him strip to the waist and had drawn star maps across his back, tracing over them with her fingers, then her lips, until he had broken and begged her to either allow him into her bed or to allow him his shirt back. She remembered the hot disappointment when she had wordlessly given him back his shirt, but he had donned it without complaint.

Rose cut the temperature on the water again.

She thought of brilliant bi-toned eyes and a mouth that too rarely smiled. Eyes that sparkled bright, even as an aesthetic face remained an emotionless mask. Eyes that, when their owner thought she wasn't looking, would trail over her, intimate as a caress. She thought of the way he laughed, as he too rarely did. She thought of a smile that she believed no one but herself and John had ever seen on Sherlock's face- warm, honest, and just a bit vulnerable.

She thought of the way Sherlock looked in his pajamas. In a tuxedo. In naught but his dressing gown. She'd seen him fresh from bed, just out of the shower, and after five days on a case that had him camping in some god-forsaken forest or other in Eastern Europe without a shower or a razor. She thought of the way his eyes sparkled when she tested him with the razor's edge of her wit. She thought of how he looked after she kissed him- hair tousled, eyes dark, cheeks pink and lips red.

Rose cut the temperature once more.

She thought of waking up, as had happened on rare occasions, with her head on his chest and his arms around her. She thought of how he slept when he slept alone and she woke him from his own bed- sprawled across the whole space, arms akimbo and face relaxed in a way that it never was when he was awake. He looked young when he slept. He was completely beautiful.

She thought of a man who had a human life to live, as she did. A man un-burdened by the weight of the universe and the terrible guilt that comes of near immortality. A man who had a flat, carpets, furniture, a roommate, a landlady, a brother. A man who did not have an ordinary job, or an ordinary mind- who had a madness behind his eyes. A man whose darkness was on a human scale- monstrous, but smaller than other monsters she had faced.

Sherlock was hers as the Doctor never had been. More like her relationship with Mickey, save that the possession went both ways- Sherlock was hers and she was his, willingly. They were equal partners- she would never match his mind, but she was strong and capable, and protective of him, much as John was. Where her relationship with the Doctor had always been somewhat unequal- he cared for and protected her, he was powerful and she was not- her relationship with Sherlock was balanced.

Rose sighed under the spray of water that was only a degree or two above frigid. If she were honest with herself (and if one can't be honest in one's shower, where can one?) she was falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. Had been for months. She wasn't sorry for the fact, but she feared hurting both him and the Doctor when they all came face-to-face.

But Sherlock had not been dissuaded and she, honestly, didn't want to dissuade him. She would simply have to deal with the situation when it arose.

Rose knew that she would have a hand to hold crossing the void, and she was pleased that it would be his.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose entered the break room twenty minutes later, hair blown dry and straightened (she'd have to talk someone into picking her up some dye before too much longer), makeup applied, dressed in her black boots, black trousers, a bright green top and her blue leather jacket. She found Sherlock staring into his cup of coffee as though it might show him the future. She decided not to interrupt his contemplations of the inky depths and began to prepare a cup of tea instead, pulling a chipped old mug out from one of the cabinets rather than using Styrofoam.

Once her tea was brewed, Rose pulled a package of biscuits from another cabinet and sat down across from Sherlock, sliding the package to the middle of the table where he could reach them if he so desired. He had not looked up at her, but she could see that he was in the room with her. She had learned what it looked like when he disappeared into the corridors of his mind, so she just sat silent and allowed him to brood while she sipped her tea and ate biscuits for breakfast.

Ten minutes later, that was where Mickey found them, still sitting in silence. Rose looked up at his entrance and grinned silently when Mickey raised an eyebrow at Sherlock who continued to stare at his coffee. Rose shook her head to indicate that she did not know what was going on there.

"Something wrong with the coffee, mate?" Mickey asked.

Sherlock looked up at the pair of them, watching him curiously. "Nothing at all," he answered at took a large gulp, grimacing when he found it stone cold.

"'Swhat happens when you stare at it for a minimum of fifteen minutes," Rose observed. "Goes cold."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her and rose to empty the unpalatable drink into the sink and take a cup of the hot liquid still in the percolator. Mickey poured a cup for himself and handed an assortment of sugar packets to Sherlock, then went to dig around in the cooler for cream.

Once the men returned to the little table with their hot drinks, Rose began to speak. "So Sherlock Holmes is dead and Rose Tyler killed him, yeah?"

"Lovely breakfast conversation, babe," Mickey commented, leaning back in his chair after grabbing a couple of biscuits from the package.

"Mmm," Rose acknowledged. "Going to be a fair bit of paperwork. Means we can't use our phones, e-mail accounts, bank accounts or credit cards. We'll have to get shadow accounts set up. Torchwood can manage that without too much issue."

"Or Mycroft could," Sherlock interjected.

"He could. You'll probably need him to set up your bank account anyway," Rose said, nodding. "I assume he's the executor of your estate?"

"What makes you think that? Why not my parents?" Sherlock was a bit surprised. She was correct, but Rose, of all people, knew his problems with Mycroft. And wouldn't it be more… _normal_ for his living parents to execute his will?

Rose grinned. "Sherlock, you are the cleverest and maddest human being that I've ever met, and that's saying a lot for me. Somehow, I think you've always had a plan in place in case you needed to die or disappear for some reason. You may never have thought it would have anything to do with saving the life of your best friend, but you knew you might have to go away, yeah?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"You did, didn't you?" Mickey laughed in surprise.

"And you'd need a way to contact Mycroft, and he'd need to be able to get you your money and everything," Rose continued, even though Sherlock hadn't technically answered them. "So we'll set you up with an un-traceable e-mail account, and I'm sure Mycroft's got one that the government can't touch, and you can work all that out with him. We'll also get you a phone. We could get a pay-as-you-go phone, so they won't need a credit check. We can set that and your bank accounts up with an assumed name…"

"Sherrinford Holmes," Sherlock interrupted. It was his preferred pseudonym.

This pronouncement was met with wide, disbelieving stares from two pairs of dark eyes.

"Sherrinford?" Mickey asked.

"Makes you miss 'John Smith,' sometimes," Rose muttered, rising to procure another cup of tea.

"John Smith?" Sherlock asked in derision. "Who would think that would fly under the radar? Far too ordinary to actually exist."

"Yeah, the Doctor got caught a surprising number of times for just that reason," Mickey agreed.

Sherlock felt a small surge of pride- at least his pseudonym was significantly more clever than their Doctor friend.

"I always made him at least use the surname 'Tyler' if we had to pretend we were married. Ended up in jail about half the number of times when we did that," Rose confirmed as she sat with her second cup of tea before her.

Sherlock's smug bubble burst. Rose and the Doctor had acted the part of a married couple? Sharing living space? Jail cells? The Doctor had allowed her to be arrested? Sherlock's irritation for the alien increased. He thought of the trial held in his head not long before and the accusations of envy, but dismissed it from his mind as irrelevant in the current conversation.

"So what'd he use on other planets then? John Smith wouldn't work," Mickey said, looking confused.

"He still used John Smith and I'm sure the TARDIS translated to whatever was closest, way she usually does," Rose answered. "But that's hardly important." She turned back to Sherlock. "You're quite certain about Sherrinford? Wouldn't prefer something like James or Richard or something?"

Rose watched Sherlock's face darken. Of course, Richard Brook, James Moriarty. She'd chosen the names at random, but naturally she'd chosen the worst possible options.

"Sherrinford will be fine," Sherlock bit out.

"What about William?" Mickey asked, apparently missing the subtext of the conversation before him. "You'd make a good Billy."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock snapped.

"Or maybe…"

"Shut it, Mickey," Rose interrupted, "Sherrinford is fine."

"Whatever you say, boss," Mickey said, dubiously.

"Anyway," Rose continued, trying very hard to move past the awkward conversation, "we'll get someone to get you that phone today, and we'll set you up with an e-mail account and everything so you can get in touch with Mycroft."

"You'll have to let me get in touch with Mycroft first, otherwise someone else will have to pay for the phone," Sherlock objected.

"Nope, you'll just owe me," Rose responded, lazily.

Sherlock frowned, thinking of something he hadn't before. "What about you though? Where is your money going to come from? You're not dead, after all. Your accounts will be frozen in an attempt to catch you."

Rose blushed, ducking her eyes away from Sherlock. Mickey glanced over at her, eyebrows raised. Sherlock was not sure what was going on, but something passed between the two friends that he could not quite interpret.

"Well… Mickey has a lot of what I'm going to need in a safety deposit box under his name," Rose began. "Gold and jewels and stuff- the kind of thing that's worth something pretty much anywhere and anywhen. And… well… I've had an account for ages. One that couldn't be traced. One that my parents don't know about. Pretty much since I came to this universe, actually." Rose looked up and could see Sherlock working away at what she had just said. She saw the moment that he put it all together because his face became that cold, expressionless mask that she hated so much.

"It's an account for when you left to find the Doctor," he said without inflection.

"Or the Doctor came through to us," Mickey added obliviously.

"The first year I was in this universe," Rose began, quietly, looking into Sherlock's silent, cold eyes, "I was desperate to go back. I wanted to be with the Doctor again and I prepared for it. Bought gold, jewelry, set up the account, everything. Even after he told me that I couldn't I… just… it gave me hope to prepare for when I would leave. But then I started to get better here. I fell in love with my job at Torchwood and the adventures. I didn't even mind being planet-bound and… well, I stopped buying things to sock away. Stopped putting money into the account. But… well… I guess I always thought, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I might need to leave the planet again, and it didn't hurt to be prepared. The account has about £5,000, and there's about that much in jewels and precious metals in Mickey's account for me."

Sherlock often forgot that Rose was an heiress. Despite the fact that he had gone on her arm to society functions, her life was a simple one (if risking one's neck day in and day out for the safety of the planet could be considered simple). Her clothes were of good quality, but never overtly expensive. Her day-to-day life was one of work, home, and the pub with friends. Her flat was appealing and roomy, but not excessively expensive, in a mid-range area of the city. The thought of £10,000 (€11,950, or $16,653, he calculated quickly, based on the most recent currency exchange he had checked) in various secret accounts reminded him of just how much money she had.

Then again, she was likely unaware of how much money he had as well.

These thoughts and calculations buzzed in the background of Sherlock's clever mind while the knowledge that Rose had been planning to leave the universe stopped his heart and all of his conscious thoughts. John's voice seemed to speak to him from the caverns of his mind. He said that Rose would not leave him- she cared for him. Mycroft's voice reminded him that, even if Rose were intending to use the accounts to leave him, having them was a canny move- she lived a dangerous life, one that could be torn apart by the wrong question being asked to the wrong ear and she never knew when she might have to run.

Sherlock clamped down on the emotions that came with Rose's story. He bundled them all up together and shoved them, ruthlessly, behind a door in his mind, chaining and locking them in place. He could not allow himself to lose focus. He was shirking other responsibilities because he felt he had a duty to Rose and to the world, and it would not do to have his concentration compromised by jealousy or even love. When the universe no longer depended on him, he could take those emotions out and chase them to their source and quash them if need be, but for now, he hadn't the time. He would just have to keep a better reign on them.

Rose watched Sherlock's face. She saw the emotions play under the pale skin- barely even muscle twitches, he was so controlled, but watching for them she could see- calculation, fear, acceptance, and then re-assertion of his rigid control. His face became a mask again and Rose was sorry to see it. She reached forward to where his hand lay on the table and stroked his long, elegant fingers with her shorter ones.

"What about John?" Mickey interrupted. He had watched the two interact for several long moments. They seemed to have forgotten that he was there, and he would normally have been happy to let them communicate in silence, but the rest of the staff would be arriving very soon and they needed to have all of this out before there were too terribly many witnesses.

"What about John?" Rose asked, confused.

"Well, are you going to tell him that you two are alive?" Mickey asked.

Sherlock frowned at Mickey. It was his instinct to not tell John anything, more for his own sense of privacy than any aspect of John's nature. Once he moved past his instinctual tendency to prevaricate, he could not find any logical reason to keep the truth from his friend, however.

"I don't think so," Rose said, surprising Sherlock.

"Why not?" he asked her.

"You want to tell John?" she asked, sounding surprised.

"I can think of no reason not to. He can keep a secret, if necessary. He won't have to mourn me, and it will help give him time to forgive you for when we return," Sherlock explained.

"That's just it though," Rose said, brow furrowing. "We might not come back. Chances are good that we're going to die or get stuck on the wrong side of the void or the universe will end- well, that one won't matter as much since all of us will end with it, obviously. Anyway, the point is that John is mourning us now. Well," she conceded after a moment's thought, "he's mourning you anyway. But if we told him that we're fine, you're alive and everything's good, he'll stop, yeah? But then, if we die, and there's a good chance we will, he starts mourning us again, all the way back to the beginning. And right now, he's got his fury with me to keep him from falling too deep into despair, yeah? If I'm not the enemy, it's just... I'm afraid he'll be completely lost. He loves you, Sherlock. You're the most important person in his universe."

Sherlock frowned at Rose. He absolutely did not understand.

"She may be right, mate," Mickey said, thoughtfully.

"Is she?" Sherlock asked, turning to the other man in slight surprise. The idea to tell John had been Mickey's originally.

"Always the tone of surprise," Rose muttered grouchily.

"I hate to think about him mourning you two if you don't die," Mickey continued, ignoring Rose, "but Rose is right, we actually have pretty low odds of coming back from this, and it's probably better for him to just get all of it out now rather than hoping for the best."

Sherlock was shocked by this. Not that Mickey was agreeing with Rose, but the very unconcerned way that he (both of them, really) talked about the possibility of dying. Like it was an ordinary thing, standing before your own mortality like that. Sherlock had never really done so- he'd had guns leveled at him, stood on the roof of that building, and he'd considered, several times in his life, taking his own life in one manner or another, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd always assumed that he would survive.

Rose and Mickey seemed much more convinced that they would not.

"You talked to Martha, yeah?" Rose asked Mickey.

"Yeah," he answered softly. "She knows I might never come back. They won't tell her I died, just stayed over there. Same as you. But I have the ring, in case I do make it back."

Rose smiled warmly. "Good," she said, simply.

"What about Jackie and Pete and Tony?" Mickey asked Rose.

"I... got in touch with them," Rose answered. "Told them I was searching for the Doctor. Didn't say anything about the murder, just... the Doctor. They'll assume I'm with him until the day they die I'm sure."

"What about your family, Holmes?" Mickey asked, turning to the detective.

"We... we enlisted Mycroft's help with disappearing and turning the trail away from Rose," Sherlock began.

"He knows that Mycroft knows," Rose urged him on, "what about your mum and dad? Do they think I killed you?"

"I suspect that Mycroft will tell them that I am alive. He does hate to upset them." Sherlock's voice was slightly mocking.

"That's kind of him," Rose said, "but it might be kinder not to tell them."

"I'm sure he already has," Sherlock said.

Rose shrugged. "Too late then, I suppose. If we die, Mycroft'll have to be notified and he can let your mum and dad know. I'm not leaving anyone to notify."

Sherlock gave her another sharp look. He wasn't sure why it worried him that she was leaving nothing and no one. Then the reason occurred to him- she might have left without telling him either. He could be like her mother and father and John- left behind without ever knowing, without ever being allowed to mourn.

Not that he'd have handled mourning very well, were he honest with himself. Thoughts of needles, glasses, bottles and smoke all swirled through his head in a concerning whirlwind.

Sherlock's reverie was broken by the entrance of a gruff, bespectacled man that Rose greeted as Arthur and introduced to Sherlock as Dr. Freeman.

As the introductions were being made for the scientist, a middle-aged woman with a mop of blonde ringlets entered and was introduced around as Melody, one of the field agents.

Shortly following Melody were two men, an Ian Heriot- a short, dark-haired man with a heavy Scottish accent and an obvious attraction to both Rose and Melody- and Rory Stewart, the physically 13-year-old doctor that Sherlock had met the last time he was in Cardiff.

There was no more time after that for the three Londoners to discuss their plans, the Torchwood staff was arriving and it was time to begin implementing them.


	4. Ill-Gotten Gains

**This chapter was largely inspired by BlueLatinDreamer from Tumblr.**

* * *

Sherlock sat quiet, attentive, and patient through the morning debrief, which put Rose on her guard. She knew that if Sherlock made the effort to _look_ like he was paying attention for any length of time, he was hardly catching one word in three. Were he actually paying attention, he would take on a glazed, half-asleep look as he mentally sorted each piece of new information into the vast files of his mind. Eyes open, nodding at the right moments, Rose knew that he was barely present.

In ordinary times, Rose found Sherlock's flouting of authority anything from a gentle irritation to a source of great entertainment. She could laugh as he dismissed Scotland Yard, Mycroft or Harriet Jones herself, but when Rose was the authority and the universe the stakes, she found no great amusement in Sherlock's disregard. He considered himself the most capable person in any room, but Rose needed to show him that he was nothing more than a green recruit here in the heart of Torchwood.

She had an idea that she thought might do just that.

As she concluded the meeting- the scientists off to their work on the cannon (still at least a week to the first jump, she had been informed), the field agents to their work on the rift garbage, and her tech team to work on hers and Sherlock's files, identities, and accounts- Rose considered how to facilitate her plan. She couldn't do it while she and Sherlock were both so dreadfully fatigued, and she wasn't directly needed for anything at this time, so she decided that she would spend the rest of the morning sleeping and would teach Sherlock his lesson in the early afternoon.

"All right team, sounds like everything is going as well as can be hoped. Any questions?" she asked.

"Not about work," Gwen began hesitantly, "but are you all right?"

"Ah," Rose said, having forgotten that her friends might have some questions about her very strange week. She had moved through the entire morning with her usual military efficiency, not even considering the fact that these people would have read the paper, heard the accusations against her, wonder what had happened, and would even worry for her.

"Right," Rose said, trying to organize her thoughts, "the story in the paper. Well, as you can see, I did not, in fact, kill Sherlock Holmes." She gestured to the man sitting toward the back of the room, watching her with what she knew was a fraction of his attention. "Sherlock's friend James… um… kidnapped me and threatened the lives of some of our friends if I didn't… well… kill him. But I had Arthur's inertial dampener, so… he didn't die, obviously. It's all," she sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, a bit like the Doctor in pinstripes did when he wasn't sure of something or had lost control of a situation. "Sorry," Rose said to the group. "I'm just so bloody exhausted, I can't think straight." The truth of this statement was punctuated by a huge yawn that she could not hold back.

This got a few laughs from the Torchwood employees.

"It's fine, Rose," Gwen said, gently. "You should get some sleep, we'll catch up later."

"Yeah. Sherlock needs to start his training ASAP, but he's been awake for 48 hours or more as well, so he'll get started after some rest. PT starts in the gym at 3, got that, Mr. Holmes?" This last was directed at Sherlock, who she could see had finally turned his full attention to the proceedings.

"Physical training?" he asked, as though not understanding the acronym.

"Yes," Rose said, stretching the word out into a sarcastic tease. "You and I have a date on the hand-to-hand mat at 3 this afternoon. Someone will provide you with appropriate workout clothes. Once we're done there, you'll have an hour with Ian and Sarah to teach you the daily training regime, and then a two mile run with me on the track." By the time she was finished, Rose was grinning with pleasure at Sherlock's discomfiture.

"I... thought we were going to wait," Sherlock said slowly.

"Were we?" Rose asked, innocently. "I don't recall agreeing to that. Just to letting you get some rest. You've about five hours. I suggest some sleep, but it's your time and you may do with it what you wish. Would you like to lend a hand in the laboratory? On the computers?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I'll just go then." With that, he quit the room.

"Not nice, Rose," Mickey said with a grin.

"He wasn't listening to a word of that meeting," Rose explained. "I'm just trying to show him who's boss. All right, everyone, off to work now. Let me know what the pool looks like when I get up and I'll put some money down on the fight as well."

Everyone laughed. Rose knew that they'd make bets on who would win the fight between her and Sherlock. Her odds would be good since nearly everyone in the building had fought her and been brought down by her at least once. But Sherlock was an unknown quantity, and had proved himself capable at any number of other things, so why not hand-to-hand combat? She was looking forward to seeing what her odds were when she woke.

With a grin at that thought, Rose retreated to her room and some long-awaited sleep.

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock hadn't really expected to fall asleep. He was, as far as he was concerned, on a case, and when he was on a case he rarely slept for more than a few minutes at a time. However, upon returning to his cell he found that he could not concentrate on the packet of information he had been provided or on the flash drive he had been given (along with a loaner laptop until his could be returned to him by Mycroft). Sherlock decided that he would sleep for a time- 30 minutes or so- and then turn his attention to the data he'd been given.

Four and a half hours later, Sherlock was awoken by a pounding on the door to his cell. Outside stood Mickey Smith wearing a slightly wicked grin.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock, who had been shocked to sleep for as long as he had, merely glared. "Are you here for a reason?" he growled.

"Some clothes for you, mate," Mickey said, handing Sherlock the fairly large bundle of clothes that had been in his arms. "The gym clothes are on the top. Took a guess at what you'd like to wear while working out, but you can request something different if it's not right. The others are a Torchwood uniform. It should fit all right. There are socks and pants in there too. We did our best on sizes. You'll have to write up a list of things and sizes and we'll get them for you in the next few days, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded curtly and retreated into his room again. There was something just a shade too British and repressed in him for him to feel comfortable discussing his underclothes with anyone- even someone with whom he had as relatively close a relationship as the one he had with Mickey.

As Sherlock was about to shut the door behind him, Mickey piped up again, "what size shoe do you wear, mate?"

"Why?"

Mickey looked at the only pair of shoes that Sherlock had with him in Cardiff. It was a reasonably comfortable pair, but not well suited to strenuous exercise.

"We can get you a pair of boots," Mickey said with a smirk. "Just tell us the size and we'll get you set up."

Sherlock sighed. He wasn't any more pleased with the thought of boots for exercising than his dress shoes, but he knew that Torchwood was paramilitary, and when in Rome, as they say, one does as the Romans do. Sherlock told Mickey his shoe size and the younger man left. Sherlock did not bother to close the door but sorted through the clothes he had been brought. A pair of black cargo-style trousers, a pair of grey sweats, two undershirts, a grey t-shirt with the same logo as the sweats, so obviously intended to go with them, and a black jumper that was apparently supposed to go with the black trousers. There was a pair of white athletic socks and a pair of black socks and two pairs of pants. Sherlock blushed slightly to see them. They were tight, black, boxer-briefs.

Sherlock wondered if Rose had been responsible for the choice of the style of pants he was given, or if it had been Mickey alone. Or one of the other members of the Torchwood staff who didn't know him at all. Sherlock's sense of privacy and his cloistered, British upbringing rebelled at the idea of someone knowing more about his pants preferences than he had given them permission to know. He picked up each item of clothing (even the pants) and examined all of them, even going so far as to raise each piece to his sensitive nose.

Each piece smelled of industrial fabric detergent, so they had not just been purchased. However, Sherlock could find no evidence that any of the pieces had been worn before- no looseness at the seams, no softening of the fabrics at the knees, elbows, or hips.

Mickey had returned some moments before and stood in the doorway watching Sherlock examine the clothes as though expecting to find needles or corrosive chemicals on them. Mickey shook his head and continued to watch the other man sniff every item of clothing. When he finally brought the last pair of socks to his nose, Mickey could hold himself back no longer.

"Do you do this at Christmas when your gran gets you a new jumper or a pair of mittens too?"

Sherlock jumped and turned. It was obvious that this was a very new place for him (or he was very distracted) because he usually noticed when another person entered his space.

"I was just..." Sherlock trailed off, not sure exactly how he was going to finish that sentence.

"All the clothes are new, never been worn, but they've been washed. I had to go to the laundrette anyway, so I tossed everything in. I can get you some that are still in the equipment room, if you like for the uniform, but I picked up the sweats, socks and pants for you out, so you'll have to deal with them."

"No," Sherlock said, looking a bit sheepish. "You don't need to do that. I was just... wondering."

Mickey smiled to show that there were no hard feelings and held out the shoes in his hands toward Sherlock. "Here's your boots," he said cheerfully. "But don't put them on. Hand-to-hand training is done barefoot. You need to get dressed," he checked his watch, "you've about ten minutes before Rose is going to expect you on the mat, and being late isn't going to convince her to go easier on you."

Mickey watched Sherlock's eyes change in an instant from sheepish embarrassment to pride and arrogance.

"She will not need to go easy on me," Sherlock said, his voice haughty.

"Yeah, all right," Mickey said skeptically, causing Sherlock to glare at him. Mickey left the room with a grin still on his face, leaving Sherlock to change quickly into the grey sweatpants and t-shirt. He'd noticed, when Mickey had given him the boots, that they were the same type that Rose and Mickey and all of the Torchwood agents wore. When he had the time, he would examine them carefully, but they seemed too light to be protective, though he was grateful, knowing that he would be working out in them.

Sherlock exited his room and found Mickey still waiting for him in the hallway outside.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Do you know how to get to the gym?" Technically, Mickey hadn't answered Sherlock's question, but Sherlock knew that he had.

"Er... no," Sherlock admitted.

"Thought not," Mickey said with a grin. He led the other man through the Hub.

Sherlock, looking around himself, noticed that no one was at their desks, or in the glassed-in laboratory, or the medical center.

"Where is everyone?" he asked.

"Already down there. You're the one who's late."

"Down… in the gymnasium?"

"Yeah," Mickey laughed slightly, "got to get a good seat for the show."

"Show?" Sherlock asked. Then, like a light clicking on, he realized what was going on. "The team is going to be watching this?"

"You bet. Best entertainment we get is watching Rose beat up new recruits," Mickey said with a grin.

Sherlock frowned at Mickey for a moment. He considered the variables- Rose Tyler was about a metre and a half tall, and around 54 or 55 kilo. She might be quick and stronger than she looked, but she was still at the mercy of her weight and reach. Sherlock, at nearly two metres tall and 72 kilo, expected that he would have an easy enough time keeping the upper hand.

Mickey could nearly hear the click of the calculator in Sherlock's mind as he led the way to Torchwood's lower-level gym facility. No doubt the detective was comparing height and weight ratios, thinking about his own (no doubt prodigious) skills in various hand-to-hand combat forms and allowing his pride to believe that he could stand against Torchwood's best. Mickey's grin turned decidedly wicked. What Sherlock was probably not taking into account was the fact that Rose Tyler was quick and mean as a snake when she fought. She was ruthless and tireless. She followed no rules and showed no mercy. Add to that the fact that her fighting style was different from anything that Sherlock might have learned on Earth and Mickey was certain (50 quid worth of certain) that Sherlock would be looking up at Rose from his back on the mat much quicker than the other man believed he would.

When they reached the gymnasium level, Sherlock had to confess (internally) that he was impressed. For an underground room, it was large and surprisingly airy. There was a running track about the edges, a selection of weight machines that were all in good condition, an area of mats around which the entirety of the Torchwood staff were grouped, a door with the pictogram of a man and one of a woman indicating the showers, and another door with the word POOL in large black letters across it.

Sherlock turned to ask Mickey a question and found that the other man had abandoned him to cross to where the rest of his coworkers stood, chatting, on the edges of the tumbling mats that were laid on the floor. Sherlock followed quickly, still carrying his boots. When he came to the edge of the mat he was brought up short by the sight before him.

Sherlock Holmes was not effusive by nature. His soul had little poetry, his perceptions held little colour. What he had was an ear for music and an exceptional instinct for truth. He was, by his own admission, dismissive of the beautiful, and if he had told Rose Tyler that she was beautiful ever in the time he had known her, it was simply a rote response he parroted from John or Mickey. He knew that she was an appealing woman; he made it clear that he was attracted to her and in his mind there was no cause to speak the words aloud.

Sherlock now found that, after having put himself on trial in his mind and having been found guilty of falling in love, it was far more difficult to look upon the object of that affection with his usual detachment. Seeing Rose Tyler standing on the mat, pink-tipped toes peeking from the bottoms of her black yoga-pants, hot pink sports bra underneath an unzipped black hoodie, hip-shot and cockily grinning at him, Sherlock's heart gave a strange and unfamiliar twist.

"You all right, Sherlock?" Rose asked cheerily.

Sherlock nodded.

"Good! Come on and join me here on the mat. So all Torchwood operatives are trained in Venusian Akido, but I like to have a bit of a spar before we start training, gives me a chance to gauge your skills. You get three chances to impress me and then all of them," Rose waved her hand vaguely at her colleagues, raising her voice and directing her next words at them, "are going to get back to their jobs if they don't want another round of Akido training alongside you."

"Thanks but no thanks," the man introduced that morning as Ian said cheerfully. "I had bruises for two weeks the last time I was in training."

There were general murmurs of assent from every person in the group. Sherlock noticed this and was shocked. Many of these people were taller and stronger than Rose. While he knew that actual size and strength were not everything in hand-to-hand combat, they did help. It appeared, however, that Mickey was not exaggerating and Rose had beaten every person in the room in martial arts. His earlier assertions to himself that he would be able to hold his own seemed to be crumbling.

Rose caught Sherlock's eye and gave him a warm smile. "You ready, Sherlock? Three rounds, should be easy, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded tersely, not entirely certain that it was going to be easy at all.

"Okay then," Rose said, stepping to the edge of the mat and shucking her hoodie. "First round, you'll attack first, second round I'll attack and third will be a bit of a surprise, good?"

Sherlock nodded again, trying to focus his attention on a plan of attack rather than the quantity of pale skin that Rose had on display. Sherlock felt vaguely unsettled at the idea of putting his hands on Rose in a violent manner. Under normal circumstances he might be able to compartmentalize the emotions and allow himself to view her as an instructor rather than a woman, but her recent brush with violence on his behalf made him feel uncomfortable about exhibiting more towards her. However, she stood waiting for him on the other side of the mat. He could see that the apparently casual stance was an illusion- her limbs were loose, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, her legs apart and she watched him like a hawk, gold eyes glittering. She was waiting for him to make his move, to begin the attack.

Sherlock began. He moved forward quickly, right in her line of sight, then, at the last moment, he feinted to the right and executed a move that was to his advantage with his greater height, weight and reach. It would be very difficult to counter, Sherlock knew, and he very nearly smiled, expecting Rose to be taken by surprise.

Sherlock's smile faltered when Rose was not taken by surprise. In fact, far from being staggered, Rose responded with a riposte that seemed so perfectly calculated to interrupt Sherlock's move that he might have thought she had read his mind. His next move was less direct, more underhanded, but still she was there to block him. Four times Sherlock attempted to get past her defenses and she rebuffed him, but never in the way that he expected. Where he might have dodged, she blocked and where he would have blocked, she dodged. He could never anticipate her. Finally, Rose seemed to tire of toying with him and Sherlock was shocked when she attacked him with a speed and ruthless skill that left him looking at her standing above him from the flat of his back in less than 10 seconds.

The Torchwood team broke into applause and whoops. Sherlock felt a hot blush of shame rise in his cheeks. The fight had hardly lasted 30 seconds and he hadn't laid a finger on Rose. He sat up as the cheering continued and shook his hair from his eyes. Rose sat down on the mat; legs folded under her, and looked him in the eyes.

"That wasn't too bad," she said in a cheerful voice. Sherlock glared at her, and her smile turned into a grin. "Wasn't as good as I expected from you, but it wasn't the worst I've ever had." Her grin turned positively wolfish and she dropped her voice to be sure they weren't overheard before she said, "guess I just expected you to have the moves." She raised an eyebrow at him as though asking if he'd gotten the joke.

Sherlock knew she was flirting with him. He knew it was entirely inappropriate. He knew he should not respond in kind, but it seemed that there was no power in the universe strong enough to stop him saying, in a voice that he had learned through practice would darken her eyes, "Rose Tyler," he rolled the name off his tongue as he knew she liked, "I've got the moves."

Her eyes did darken, just as he'd expected. "But you wouldn't want to boast?" she asked.

He jerked his head toward the chattering audience and said, "get rid of this lot and I'll show you my moves." He was both shocked that the words had come from his mouth and delighted at the slight blush that bloomed in Rose's cheeks.

"Focus, Sherlock," Rose said with a cheeky grin. "Training first, _dancing_ another time."

"Dancing would be more fun," Sherlock said, wincing as he shifted his position on the mat.

"I'm having a lovely time," Rose said winking. "Right," she continued, her voice turning serious, "you're pulling your punches- don't want to hit me." Rose watched Sherlock's eyes slide away from hers- an admission. "I get it," she acknowledged, "you don't hit a girl, and you definitely don't hit your girlfriend, and good for you, but in this case you're going to have to." She nodded toward the spectators. "One of them could probably train you, but I'm the best, and you need the best if you're going to be crossing the void. So no more pulling punches. You're the master of compartmentalization, so lock it away, all right?" Her eyes were locked to his and she was no longer smiling.

Sherlock nodded and shut his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, there was a light of challenge behind them that send a quiet thrill through Rose. This was going to be fun.

She rose to her feet and offered Sherlock her hand to stand. Just before he found his balance, however, she pulled him to her, overbalancing him forward, landed a blow on his ribs, and danced away before he could recover. The move was cold and underhanded, and she felt his tension shift- if she was going to fight dirty, then he would as well. Rose was pleased with the change. The two spent the next several minutes attacking and blocking. Rose kept the upper hand, but she could feel him gaining. He was picking up the rhythm of the Akido faster than anyone she had ever taught, and it was thrilling to her. Three minutes in, when she tripped him onto his front and planted a foot in the center of his back to keep him down, they were both breathing hard, but Rose had a brilliant grin on her face.

When Sherlock flipped over, grabbed Rose's leg and executed a Judo throw without warning, Rose simply tucked herself into a ball, tumbled, and came up on her feet. The two made no acknowledgement of the gasps and cries of the audience. They circled one another, a dark-eyed wolf and a light-eyed panther. As though in accord, they moved toward each other. They were matched nearly blow-for-blow, dodging and ducking, side-stepping and weaving. It was Rose's speed versus Sherlock's strength. Rose's smaller size versus Sherlock's greater reach. In the end, however, Rose's skill still won out, and Sherlock was again flat on his back on the mat, looking at her glowing, grinning face.

The Torchwood team erupted into cheers and groans. Rose ignored them, her brilliant grin for Sherlock alone.

"You're right," she said, offering him a hand to get up again, "your moves were very impressive!" Once he was standing, she threw her arms around him in a hug.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure why his skill in combat had her so excited and impressed, but he found he couldn't much care when she was snuggled against his chest in that way. He also found it impossible to keep the smile from his face as he wrapped her in his arms, sweaty and achy though they both were.

Mickey came up behind them and cleared his throat. Rose disentangled herself from Sherlock and turned to her best friend who, wordlessly, held out a roll of bills to her.

"Thanks, Mick," she said cheerfully, taking it from him and walking it over to her hoodie to tuck into the pocket. "All right you lot," Rose called out to the still chattering crowd, "you've had your fun, now clear out."

The team left, though several patted Sherlock's shoulder or back as they went by, congratulating him.

"What was that about?" Sherlock asked Rose once they were alone again.

"That's my take from the pool," she answered.

"You bet that you would beat me?"

"Actually, I'm not sure anyone actually ever bets against me anymore," Rose said cheerily. "'Snot a terribly safe bet. I did, however, bet that you would give me a run for my money."

"And how much did you win?"

"Two… three hundred quid or so," Rose said with a wave of her hand that told him it was an approximate number. "Now that the crowd is gone though, you and I need to talk."

Sherlock watched the humor get put away behind her eyes. She was now completely serious and expected him to give her his attention.

"I was watching you in the debrief this morning. You weren't listening to two-thirds of it, were you?" Rose watched Sherlock's reaction, and, seeing him shift uncomfortably, had her suspicions confirmed. "Look, I know that you usually consider yourself the expert, and that's fine," she said, holding his eyes with hers, "when we're in London and dealing with criminals, you're the boss and that's good, but we're not in London anymore, and before long we're not even going to be in this universe, and you have to accept that I'm the authority or you're going to get yourself and me killed, do you understand?"

Sherlock sighed. It was another thing that he was un-practiced at doing- giving up control.

"I can't promise anything," he said, honestly, "but you're right, you are the expert. I will try to treat you as such."

Rose nodded. She knew that this was the best she could expect from the proud man in front of her.

"What are you going to do with your ill-gotten gains?" Sherlock asked, trying to inject some humor into the situation again.

Rose smiled again. "Maybe I'll buy you a drink," she said, a grin with a peek of tongue at the corner appeared. "But Venusian Akido first."


	5. Fond Farewell

**Happy Wednesday, everyone!**

**For all of the gorgeous people who are commenting, I thank you! For all of the equally beautiful people who are following and favouriting, I give you hugs and blow you kisses! For all of the similarly aesthetically pleasing people who are just reading and moving on, I throw flowers and candies and wish you all of my love!**

**Things get a little bit angsty. For those of you who read Stars Will Fall (and I recommend doing so, if only because this story will make a smidge more sense if you do... the best parts of it are the ones that WhoLockGirl helped me with), everything up to about the middle of this chapter happened before the epilogue of that story. We are about to reach that point and finally move forward.**

**Reviews make me smile. If you're reading and having fun, I love knowing it, but even if you don't review, I love you for reading it!**

* * *

Every muscle of Sherlock's body ached. He wondered to himself if he was getting too old for this lifestyle, but the sight of Rose Tyler's running form five lengths ahead of him on the track gave lie to any question of being "too old" for anything. He felt like a teenager around her sometimes (though even in his teenage years, Sherlock had had more control of his libido than he seemed able to exhibit around Rose Tyler). He would finish this run with her, and then collapse into the bed in his cell for eight hours.

Rose had found him after a grueling session on the weight machines with Sarah and Ian. Ian, though nearly 15 years Sherlock's senior, was tireless and had jovially bullied Sherlock through the routine. Sarah- a tiny person, shorter even than Rose- was all fire and stubbornness and had played the "bad cop" to Ian's good. She had harassed and abused him where Ian had cajoled and nudged and, at the end, Sherlock was exhausted, achy, and had a vague sense of pride for having come through. Both Ian and Sarah grinned their pride with him, and Rose gave him another hug in spite of his sweaty, overheated skin. She had smelled of chlorine and her hair had been wet- obviously she had used the time that he was being tortured by her colleagues for a swim.

Then Rose had reminded him of the two-mile run she'd mentioned that morning and Sherlock nearly collapsed to the floor. His pride and his unwillingness to show weakness to Rose was what kept him standing and got him moving. She stayed several lengths ahead of him with music playing over a set of earbuds attached to a miniature music player. Sherlock preferred, if he was going to run, to have silence. He entered his mind, removed himself from physical sensation, and allowed his body to move on autopilot. He was now reaching the end of his strength, however. His lungs burned and his muscles screamed and his mind was too fatigued to keep those things locked away from his conscious. He was going to have to stop soon. His pride warred with his physical limitations, and just as his pride crumbled, Rose slowed her run to a walk and shut off her music. Sherlock caught up with her in a few strides and slowed to a walk as well, then stopped, doubled-over, and put his hands on his knees, taking deep, gasping breaths.

Rose grabbed his arm and forced him to continue walking, even as they both caught their breath. "You have to walk," she said, pulling him along, "or your muscles will cramp up. Come on now, one more time around the track, yeah?"

Sherlock, too breathless to speak, merely nodded and continued around the track with her. He knew the wisdom of what she said, even if his body objected to his continued movement.

"So, Sherlock Holmes," Rose said, once she'd caught her breath again, "you've quite impressed me. We haven't had a new recruit make it through that gauntlet in over a year."

Sherlock, still gasping, could only manage one word: "what?"

"Most of 'em give up- usually around an hour with the weights. Haven't had someone make it all the way through the run in ages. You're good, Sherlock. The best, but you already knew that."

Sherlock could not think of a single thing to say. His vast, complicated brain had stuttered to a halt. Despite the fact that his pride had kept him from objecting to the strain of what had been asked of him, he had not even realized that giving up was an option much less one that other people had chosen.

But Rose was impressed with him, and that would do for now.

After making the final lap of the track in a slow walk, Rose made him do a few stretches to keep his muscles from seizing, then, finally, allowed him to go back to his room for a hot shower and a change of clothes. Sherlock had just pulled the new black jumper over his head (slightly too big, but manageable) and was contemplating collapsing into his bed to sleep for 24 hours when a knock came at his door.

Sherlock glared at the portal and considered ignoring the knock before discarding the idea as unfeasible. This wasn't Baker Street where he could ostensibly be too far away to have heard the door. Even if he were asleep, he'd have been able to hear the knock, and if he didn't answer he was sure someone would worry and might force their way in instead.

Sherlock sighed and pressed the button to open the door and was confronted with Rose Tyler wearing her usual grin of greeting and holding something behind her back.

"You look ready to pass out," she observed cheerily.

"Yes," he grunted, not bothering to even pretend to be socially acceptable just now. "I was just about to do that, in fact."

"Nope, not yet," she said, brushing past him to enter the room while still keeping whatever was behind her back away from his gaze.

"Rose," Sherlock said, trying to keep himself from growling at her, "I have had a very taxing day."

"I know," she said, now standing beside his desk and looking around at the barren room, "but you need some carbohydrates, some protein and some potassium before you get still for too long or you'll wake up miserable, so I made you this." From behind her back she pulled out a plate with a sandwich on it. "Peanut butter and banana sandwich. For your dinner," she said cheerily, setting it down on his desk. "Oh, and," she opened one of the cargo pockets on her trousers and pulled out a can of Coca-Cola, "something to drink." She set her haul down on the desk, arranging it neatly, and then sat on the edge of his bed, smiling up at him.

"Peanut butter and banana?" Sherlock asked. His brain was fatigued and failing him.

"Good source of potassium, bananas," Rose responded. "And they're good. The sandwich is good. My friend Jack used to make them after long days. Elvis Presley sandwiches, he called them. Was supposed to meet Elvis once, but we got diverted to Queen Elizabeth's coronation... obviously that event didn't happen in this universe, but we stopped an alien that was eating people's faces. It got me, actually. Doctor saved me."

"You're babbling," Sherlock said shortly. He didn't want to hear about the Doctor saving Rose's life (and risking it at the same time). He didn't want to hear the esteem in her voice when she talked about the alien. He just couldn't handle it.

Rose sighed. "Look," she said, her grin gone and a slightly pleading note in her voice, "we've never talked about it and now... it's just that there's a chance that we're going to see those things again. We can't figure out how the cannon is going to work, so we might meet the Doctor before he's ever met me, or we might meet him after it's all been fixed. Or maybe it's a temporal tipping point and there is no 'after.' Not for us. Not until it's fixed."

Sherlock shook his head and sat on the desk chair facing her. "Lately," he admitted, "it seems like every conversation with you goes completely mad, do you know that?"

Rose winced. "Sorry. Used to hate when the Doctor did that. Look, I'll try to explain, but would you eat the sandwich, please? For me?"

Sherlock huffed through his nose in an irritated way. Under normal circumstances, that "for me" would have been a tease- she knew he would never deny her any small favor she asked of him, and as few large ones as possible. Just at that moment, however, when she was going to insist on talking about the Doctor (the _other man_, Sherlock was unable to stop himself from thinking), Sherlock couldn't help but feel that the addition of those words was manipulative. Though he could not argue because, again, her logic was sound. The protein, vitamins and carbs were what he needed, and the caffeine and sugar from the soft drink would give him a few more hours to look at the files he'd been given and asked to memorize.

"You needn't bother trying to explain. I'm sure it will do neither of us any good," Sherlock said before taking an excessively violent bite of the sandwich before him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rose stiffen, just slightly, and knew that his barbed words had wounded her.

"All right then," Rose said quietly. She took a long, slow breath, and started speaking again. This time, however, the warmth had leeched from her voice and Sherlock was left with the Director of Torchwood, not Rose Tyler. "I spoke to Arthur this afternoon, and he said-"

"Did you get any sleep at all?" Sherlock asked, interrupting her.

"A bit," she answered curtly. "Anyway, he says that we should be able to jump by this time next week, so-"

"You were held captive for three days, you need more than 'a bit' of sleep," Sherlock interrupted again.

Rose closed her eyes and sighed. "I slept for a few hours. Remember? Shortly after we met, the last time we were in the Hub together? You suggested that I take up a sleeping regimen of 20 minutes every four hours? The Uberman sleep cycle? Well, I started that while I was here before. I only needed about two hours to replace my deficit."

"But, as you rightly said before, it will drive you mad after about six months."

Rose gave him a long, cold look. "Given what we're seeing with the anomaly in the Medusa Cascade, the universe doesn't have six months. CERN and NASA will be able to see the anomaly with their instrumentation within the next few weeks. The world will begin panicking within a month. The universe will collapse within six." Rose stood up from the bed and crossed to the door of Sherlock's cell. "As I was saying, the schedule for our first jump is being moved up. We have a week. You, Mickey and I will have to return to London. Scotland Yard is going to want to question Mickey about my whereabouts, and I'd like another chance to speak with your brother. Please set that up, if you're able. You may also want to speak with him, naturally, to go over what will need to happen if you die. Enjoy your dinner." With that, Rose left the room, pressing the button to close Sherlock in as she walked out.

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock woke from sleep after four hours. He got up and wandered the quiet Hub until he found Rose, as he had expected, sitting with her legs curled under her in a desk chair, working on a laptop with a pair of dark-framed glasses perched on her nose. He set a cup of milky tea at her right hand, drew up a chair, and sat at her left with his own cup of coffee.

"Is this the traditional 'I'm sorry' cuppa?" Rose asked without looking away from the screen.

"S'pose so," Sherlock answered. In the time they had known each other, Sherlock had regularly needed to apologize to Rose, and he found that having something to give her helped start the conversational ball rolling. It had become common, therefore, for Sherlock to make Rose a cup of tea when he knew he needed to apologize.

Rose did not look away from the screen as she picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. He always made tea too strong, she thought, but he'd made the attempt, and she couldn't deny that lately she'd been drinking her tea (and coffee as well) stronger than she ever had before. Rose sighed. Sherlock was an absolute menace in the kitchen, but he had made the effort to make a good cup of tea for her, and she had to give him credit. And it seemed like he was going to attempt to apologize. She knew she'd have to walk him through it though- she always did.

Rose set the cup of tea down again and turned in her chair to face Sherlock. "Do you know what you're apologizing for this time?"

"You were trying to explain the possible dangers waiting for us on the other side of the jumps and I was not listening. In fact, I was being patronizing," Sherlock answered quickly. It was obvious that he had given it some thought while making tea.

Rose couldn't stop a small smirk. "You're closer to right than usual, you know." She sighed. "Look, you never ask about the Doctor or my life with him. I don't know if that's just because you're still not sure if you believe all of that rubbish I told you about, or if there are other reasons," she raised her eyes to his, and there was a knowing light that made Sherlock want to squirm in his seat, "but we're crossing the void to find him, and you've insisted on coming with us, and the more knowledge you have about the Doctor the better. If you can't even hear him mentioned without acting like a child, you're not coming."

Something primitive, even animal, in Sherlock's mind growled that he would go with Rose and protect her with his life, whether she liked it or not. He forced that idea away, behind a locked door, just a bit shocked that he was even capable of such a response. Logically, Sherlock knew that he would need all of the information he could get and that included information about the Doctor. He needed to be a Detective now, not a man. As difficult as it was with Rose Tyler- pink-cheeked and golden-haired- in such close proximity, Sherlock was sure that he was capable of it.

Sherlock took a deep breath to gird his loins for words that were, even now, alien to his tongue. "You're right, I'm sorry," he said, not quite able to meet Rose's eyes. He did see the slight lift to the right corner of her mouth though. Sherlock lifted his eyes to hers to find them sparkling with suppressed laughter. He glared at her, which proved entirely ineffective as her half-smirk turned into a fully-blown grin. Sherlock shook his head at her antics and asked, "what do I need to know about the Doctor then?"

Rose's amused smile faded to a more thoughtful expression. "I don't really know," she admitted. "That's the problem y'see- we don't know how the cannon is going to act until we use it, right? We don't want to arrive too late, obviously, but the Doctor is over 900 years old, so arriving too early could be just as catastrophic as arriving too late. Like I said- our time is limited. I'll always know the TARDIS, but I might not always know the Doctor."

"But I thought you did know the Doctor," Sherlock said, confused.

"Yeah, but I told you: he changes his face. When I met him he was tall, dark and Northern. When I got separated from him, he was skinny, a bit brown, and hyper as a puppy. I don't know what he looked like before, and he may have even changed again. I don't know how long it's been for him. I'm going to have to depend on the TARDIS to tell me where and when we are and if I can approach the Doctor. Anyway, the point is that we might run into him while I'm still with him. We might run into him before I ever met him. We might run into him after he's forgotten about me for centuries. It's really impossible to tell."

"You think he's forgotten about you?" Sherlock asked. It seemed impossible to him that someone that Rose held in such high esteem as the Doctor could have forgotten her. It seemed impossible that anyone who had met Rose Tyler could forget her.

"No," Rose said quietly, looking down at her hands. "No, not forget. He never forgets anyone… but he'd have locked the memories away somewhere that they didn't hurt. Somewhere he doesn't have to look at them."

Sherlock did not know what to say to that, so he just reached his hand out and took hers. Rose sighed and linked her fingers through his. Sherlock looked at the contrasts of their hands, inter-woven as they were. Her fingers- short and soft and pink-tipped, and his- long, tapered and callused. A study in contrasts, but together they looked quite appealing.

"Were you able to find the time to contact Mycroft?" Rose broke the silence the Sherlock had allowed to fall.

"Yes." Sherlock raised his eyes to hers. "He is happy to speak with you next week. He suggested Thursday. Apparently it will be my funeral. He will be sending down a supply of my things express tomorrow- my laptop, a few clothes, a new phone in the name Sherrinford Holmes," he smiled wryly at the amusement in her eyes, "and my violin."

"Care of?" Rose asked.

"I told him to send it to Ian."

"That'll do. Mickey'll take us up to London. Scotland Yard has been calling him to make a statement about me. He offered to give it to the Cardiff police, but they're not having it."

"Probably Gavin being an idiot," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Greg," Rose corrected absently. "And he's involved with both the victim and the suspect, so they wouldn't put him on this case. Conflict of interest."

"S'pose so," Sherlock conceded. "That just means that it's someone even less capable than Garth."

"Now you're just doing it on purpose," Rose said arching an eyebrow at him.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock answered, just a shade too innocently, eliciting a bright smile from Rose.

~?~?~?~?~

The week passed in a flurry of small explosions from the laboratory, target practice on the range with a variety of lethal and non-lethal alien weapons, Akido training with Rose, runs, swims, weights, e-mail arguments with Mycroft, committing some 150 pages of information about various alien species, technology and weaponry to memory, long explanations about the Doctor that always seemed to devolve into laughing reminiscences between Rose and Mickey that left Sherlock swallowing down green envy that tasted a bit like bile, and Rose and Sherlock growing progressively more restless as they were not allowed to leave the Hub.

Finally, first thing on Thursday morning, Rose handed Sherlock a stunner for the holster she'd made him don beneath his jacket. After his clothes had arrived, Sherlock had returned to his habit of dress trousers, button-down shirts, and jackets rather than jumpers and cargos, save when he was in the gym. He had, however, been converted to the cult of the Torchwood boots.

Rose's stunner was already holstered under her blue leather jacket. She wore jeans and a sunny yellow top and was fiddling with the power source for the perception filter that she and Sherlock would be using. Sherlock noted that her hands were trembling. They had been informed not ten minutes prior that their first jump could be as soon as Saturday. Almost as soon as they returned from London, they would be leaving the universe for the first time. Sherlock's first time, anyway. Both Mickey and Rose were as jumpy as cats.

Sherlock placed a hand over Rose's wrist. "Mickey is waiting," he reminded her softly. Rose nodded, and shifted her hand to fit inside of his and allowed Sherlock to lead her through the Hub to Mickey's vehicle.

~?~?~?~?~

Mickey dropped Rose and Sherlock off at the churchyard to attend the funeral in secret. They had said that they would make their own way to Mycroft's Pall Mall residence. Mickey stood for a few minutes before the stone that marked the apparent eternal resting place of Sherlock Holmes. Not that he was doing much resting this eternity, Mickey thought wryly.

It gave Mickey some pause to thing that, if this enterprise failed, Sherlock alone among them would have a grave to mark his passage on this planet. It was fitting, he supposed. Sherlock, alone, belonged here. He, alone, had been born in this universe.

A quiet voice in Mickey's head reminded him that if their enterprise failed, even Sherlock would only have a grave marking his time on Earth for the next 4-6 months until the universe disappeared around them all.

Mickey shook his head. He was trying so hard to avoid these fatalistic thoughts. He believed that Rose would find the Doctor and that the Doctor would save them. What happened between Rose and the Doctor and Sherlock after that was for them to decide, but for the moment the universe was more important even than Rose Tyler's happiness.

Mickey left the graveyard. He had no desire to see people who were mourning a man who was not dead.

~?~?~?~?~

Like the last time Rose and Sherlock spoke to Mycroft, they entered the building and passed by the guards invisible to both human and electronic eye. They came to the door of Mycroft's study and entered. The man himself sat behind his desk watching the camera feed through his home and checking his watch every 11 seconds.

"Good evening, Mycroft," Sherlock said, pitching his voice carefully to make his brother jump. The older man did not disappoint and a thin smile crossed Sherlock's mouth. "You failed to attend my funeral. No parting words for your dearly departed brother?"

"I am far too busy trying to catch my brother's elusive killer," Mycroft said, irritable at having been caught off-guard.

"And where were Mother and Father?"

"They are out of the country just now. Tickets could not be procured to bring them here in time for your hasty memorial, though they will be accepting condolences."

"They know that I am not dead, however?"

"Naturally. Now, are you going to continue to waste my time? I was under the impression that Ms. Tyler had something she wished to ask of me. I presume that she is here though I can't see her, or have you descended to the position of errand-boy, Brother-Mine?"

"Very astute, Mr. Holmes," Rose said before Sherlock could rise to his brother's bait.

Mycroft started again. It was not as though he had not been able to see Rose Tyler, he realized. She had always been there, but his mind had refused to focus on the spot where she stood until she spoke and drew attention to herself. Once that happened, Mycroft realized that she had walked in with Sherlock and stood quiet while the brothers greeted each other with insults. She'd even smiled indulgently at the pair of them as though they were a set of not-very-well-behaved terriers that were, nevertheless, endearing.

"What do you want?" Mycroft snapped, surprise and irritation overcoming his customary etiquette.

Rose stepped forward. "The stars are going out. The universe is coming to an end, Mycroft Holmes."

"That seems a bit dramatic, doesn't it," Mycroft sneered.

Rose smiled. "And you know nothing of unnecessary dramatics, of course. But it's the truth. In the next two weeks or so, NASA and CERN will be able to see the phenomenon with their telescopes. The world will begin to panic. I just want to warn you ahead of time. I'm trying to fix it, but if I fail, the universe has an expiration date, and it is about six months. During that time, I have three favors to ask of you. The first is Martha Jones. Doctor Martha Jones at St. Bart's. Be sure she's all right, please? John Watson as well. And my parents and little brother."

"I will do what I am able," Mycroft said dismissively, though he had planned on keeping an eye on all those she had mentioned anyway. "Are you leaving London tonight?" This last was directed at Sherlock.

"Tomorrow," his brother answered, tersely.

"And you are staying the night…?" Mycroft inquired.

"In a hole in the wall," Sherlock answered, referring to one of his nigh-undetectable safe havens in obscure spots in London.

"Both of you? Together?" Mycroft seemed shocked and Rose rolled her eyes.

"Worried for my virtue, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked scathingly.

Mycroft snorted to show what he thought of that. He was, however, seized by a strange compulsion. "You could stay here if you needed a place to stay," he offered, shocking even himself.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock and Rose shared some silent communication on the other side of the room as he tensely awaited their answer.

"Yes, all right," Sherlock said, curtly, after a few moments.

"I'll prepare something," Mycroft said, rising and moving to leave the room. Before he was out the door, however, he turned back to Sherlock and Rose, his usual haughty expression returned. "I presume separate bedrooms will not be a problem?"

~?~?~?~?~

Mycroft was shocked to find Rose Tyler sitting at the table in his dark and rarely-used kitchen when he entered it at 3 AM the following morning. She was sitting with an empty glass, a pad of paper, and a pencil in front of her, but she was staring at the wall, not apparently paying attention to anything.

Mycroft did not say anything to her as he bustled into the kitchen and procured a glass of water for himself. As he was about to leave- uncomfortable being in his dressing gown before his brother's cohort- she spoke.

"You will be the only person in the universe who will know if I die," she said softly. Mycroft stopped in the doorway, but he did not turn to look at her. "My parents will be told that I'm with the Doctor. Martha as well. You will be the only person outside of Torchwood who will ever know my fate. Of all the people on this Earth to know, I think you might have been among the last I'd have chosen to memorialize me."

Mycroft could think of no answer to this, so he left her to her silent musings.

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock, Rose and Mickey returned to Cardiff on Friday afternoon. They spent the day preparing to leave the universe and, first thing in the morning on Saturday the three stood ready inside the circle of mirrors that made the dimension cannon work. Mickey carried a large and lethal-looking gun. Sherlock had something smaller and more discreet, but no less powerful. Rose had a stunner under her coat and an EMP that would halt a Dalek for about five minutes (according to the Elorden that they had gotten it off of).

In a flash of light, they were gone. The next time they opened their eyes, they were on a busy street corner surrounded by people in togas.


	6. Convergence

**I am absolutely LOVING everyone's theories about this story. I'm trying really hard not to give spoilers, but Wholockgal and I are hanging out in our corner giggling about what's going to come. Some of you have gotten VERY close, but no one's guessed it exactly yet.**

**However, if someone does guess it exactly, I'm not going to tell you because... well... that'd ruin it.**

**I do hope you're still enjoying the adventure!**

**You probably know this, but Doctor Who, Sherlock, most of these situations and large percentage of these characters aren't mine, but maybe if I'm very good this year, Santa Clause will put a dark-haired detective in my stocking. Or a sexy blonde badass. I'm not picky.**

**And now, I present to you chapter six of Holmes and Tyler are Dead, where some very interesting things happen and some very interesting people appear.**

* * *

No one paid any mind to the strangely-dressed trio who had appeared out of nowhere on the corner. Men, women and children kept bustling past without even acknowledging that anything out-of-the-ordinary had happened. This had always been Rose's experience- walk in like you belong somewhere and everyone assumes that you do. Appear out of nowhere, and no one notices because it's just too strange for the human mind to accept.

Rose took a deep, smiling breath as the boys looked about themselves. She was no longer time-locked, she thought to herself, and nearly burst into giggles.

"So where are we, and when?" Mickey asked.

"Ancient Rome, looks like," Rose answered, glancing around. "With all the," she waved her hand vaguely, "togas and capes and columns and all, right?"

"First century," Sherlock concurred, frowning as he looked about, "but not Rome. The landscape isn't right."

"You've been to Rome?" Mickey asked.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, not really listening to Mickey. There _was_ something familiar about this place, but he could not quite pin it down. He took a few steps away from his compatriots to where he could look down the road and see the mountain in the shadow of which the city lay. It was that hulking silhouette that finally caused everything to click into place. A trip one summer when he was a child home on holiday from school. His mother had thought it would be educational. Sherlock had found the bodies preserved forever an endless source of fascination, which had concerned his mother and father and caused his brother to tease him mercilessly.

"Pompeii," he breathed, looking up at the smoking cap of the mountain.

~?~?~?~?~

Contrary to Rose's observation, one person had seen them appear on the street corner. A man with silver hair and a lined face stood on the other side of the street dressed in the costume of the time. He had been about to approach the stall where his past self's TARDIS sat to purchase it when he'd seen them arrive and the universe had narrowed to a single point.

Rose Tyler.

The first time that the Twelfth Doctor had looked at himself in the mirror, he had known that he would be returning to Pompeii. He would have to ensure that what must happen there happened, and that he caused it, as he must, but also that he was saved by what he did, as was only right.

The Twelfth Doctor knew that it would be a difficult trip.

He had never expected it to be this difficult.

His left hand curled into a fist as he tried to keep his emotions in check and the silver band that he wore on the fourth finger of that hand bit deep. It was a reminder.

The Doctor checked his time senses quickly. He had a few more minutes before the TARDIS must be purchased and carted off. He turned on his heel to leave. He could not look any longer at that most beloved of faces knowing what he knew.

~?~?~?~?~

"Nice coat." An American drawl came from Sherlock's right. He turned to see a dark-haired man with classic-Hollywood good looks giving him a grin that Sherlock couldn't quite read. "Captain Jack Harkness," the man said, extending his hand. "You don't look like you're from around here."

"Nor do you," Sherlock responded, looking the man over and ignoring his hand. Despite the fact that he was wearing the appropriate costume for the time and place, Sherlock could detect something in his bearing that told him the man did not belong- not to mention his accent and language.

"You here after my merchandise?"

Sherlock was not sure exactly how the man managed to imbue such a technically innocent question with so much innuendo. "Sorry," he said instead, "I'm not buying what you're selling."

The man (Captain Harkness) just smiled again and withdrew a white card from... Sherlock could not quite tell from whence in the white toga the man had pulled it- there was no obvious place.

"If you change your mind, let me know. Tomorrow's volcano day, so you'll have to be quick about it." And with that pronouncement, the man was away again.

~?~?~?~?~

"But are we in the right place?" Mickey asked, turning to Rose. "Right universe? Is the Doctor here?"

Rose turned to him, her eyes sparkling with joyful tears. Without a word, she pointed across the road where a battered blue box sat under the pavilion of a seller of knickknacks. Mickey turned to her and they shared a grin.

"See it, Sherlock?" Rose asked, turning to where the detective had been a moment before and finding him missing. "He's wandered off!" she cried in alarm.

"Sounds oddly familiar," Mickey said with a grin. "Did you tell him rule one?"

Rose bit her lower lip in concern as she continued to scan the crowd. A tall man in 21st century apparel should not be difficult to find. "May have forgotten," she said, distractedly.

"Be a bit hypocritical," Mickey continued, baiting her while she was distracted, "you trying to enforce the 'don't wander off' rule."

Rose was just about to bite off a retort when she caught sight of a dark head above the crowd. "Sherlock!" she cried to it. She saw it jolt, disappear, and then begin to move toward her. A moment later Sherlock appeared at her side.

"Rule number one of traveling through time and space," Rose said, once he was close enough, "don't wander off."

"And don't argue with the designated driver," Mickey added.

"Don't drink that liquor from Ryla 9," Rose added, thoughtfully.

"Don't get married on accident."

"Or put in a harem."

"Or jail."

"Don't piss off local monarchs."

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock asked bitterly, cutting through the ludicrous banter the two old friends had gotten into.

"Sorry," Rose said, with a slightly sheepish smile up at him through her lashes. She took his hand and pointed at a spot on the opposite corner. "Do you see it?" she asked.

Sherlock looked. He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but as he turned to ask Rose to clarify, he caught a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly he could see the 1950s police public call box sitting in the middle of first-century Pompeii.

Rose could see the moment that Sherlock finally saw past the perception filter in the widening of his eyes and the slackening of his jaw. She grinned then tugged his hand across the busy thoroughfare to the blue box that was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen in two universes. Mickey followed the pair, grinning at the old box as well.

When they reached the doors, Rose dropped Sherlock's hand and stroked her fingers over the battered wood. "Hello, old girl," she murmured, and Sherlock could have sworn that the box hummed at her. That was, of course, impossible. Whatever Rose claimed about the box being alive (much less sentient) he was certain that it was merely advanced alien technology. Clarke's third law of prediction stated that "any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." What Rose believed was sentience or life was undoubtedly a highly advanced artificial intelligence.

From her pocket, Rose removed a black device. When Mickey questioned her about it, she told them that it was their navigator. She depressed a square on the surface to open a small compartment in which glittered a key. Sherlock frowned at the item- normally it lived on the silver chain that Rose wore at all times. She was still wearing the chain, but the key was not on it. He wondered, for a moment, what had taken its place. He'd placed the key to his own Baker Street flat on it once, months ago, and he hoped that it was still there, but he did not know.

Rose slid the key into the lock and couldn't stop a slow, spreading smile when it clicked and the door swung inward in defiance of the instructions printed on it. She stepped into the cavernous space and ran to the console to stroke the glowing green time-rotor.

Mickey followed after her, long-since used to the strange proportions of the space. Sherlock was the last to cross the threshold and gasped upon entering. It was one thing to be told of impossible dimensions, it was a completely different thing to experience them. His logical mind and his perceptions warred with each other, leaving him nauseous and his head spinning. Sherlock leaned against the doors and shut his eyes, hoping that, when he opened them, he would be able to believe what they saw.

Rose circled the console, running her fingers across the controls, stroking some, tripping her fingers over others. She had missed the TARDIS like a friend. As she came back around, however, someone stood in her way.

The girl was small, not more than 15 or 16 with puckish features, a pixie haircut and large, dark eyes. "Arkytior," the girl breathed, looking up at Rose with joy shining from her eyes.

"Uh," Rose startled, "hullo. My name's Rose. Rose Tyler. Is… is the Doctor around somewhere? Are you traveling with him?"

"Yes!" the girl cried, then "No. Sort of. Really, he's traveling with me. I stole him, you see."

"You… stole the Doctor?"

The girl smiled slowly. "I wanted to see the universe, so I stole a Time Lord and ran away. He always tells it the other way around though. Foolish Doctor."

"I'm sorry," Rose said, frowning, "but who are you?"

"TARDIS voice interface," the girl pronounced clearly. "Image file oldest: Susan. Granddaughter."

Rose was stunned. "You're his granddaughter?" she whispered, looking at the lovely face of the girl before her. She looked nothing like either of her Doctors, save for the intensity of her gaze. This sweet girl had died in the War.

"This image upsets you," the TARDIS said suddenly. "I will find another."

With that the TARDIS began to flip through images with shocking speed. There was a dark-haired young man in a kilt, a sweet-faced blonde boy, a pretty girl with a mop of blonde hair, a brunette in a man's bomber jacket, a gorgeous black woman in a red leather jacket, and an impression of long, pale legs and ginger hair before the image sparkled out and the TARDIS' voice could be heard without the visual interface. "Image not available, timeline not yet accessible." The TARDIS reappeared in a new guise- a mid-thirties woman with long, ginger hair, green eyes, and a sardonic tilt to her mouth. "Blast," the woman said, "tried to go too far forward."

"And you are?" Rose asked, curious.

"Donna Noble, current companion of the Doctor," the TARDIS replied.

"She looks like she can keep him in line," Rose said, looking the woman over.

"She is exactly what our Doctor needs, my Wolf," the TARDIS responded, grinning. She then looked around and saw the two men. "My Soldier Boy," she cried, rushing to Mickey and transforming from Donna to a clunky robot dog.

"K-9," Mickey said, laughing.

"Oh TARDIS, don't tease," Rose admonished, laughing along.

Sarah Jane's image replaced K-9. "You were the tin dog who was refined into tempered steel," she said softly, looking at Mickey with deep affection. "I am so proud of you, my Soldier Boy."

Mickey looked too stunned to speak, and the TARDIS turned to Sherlock, who had finally opened his eyes. Sarah Jane's image frowned for a moment and then transformed into Jackie Tyler for one brief moment, causing Sherlock to gasp, then into Mycroft Holmes.

"You doubt the evidence of your eyes because your mind is telling you that it's impossible," the TARDIS said in Mycroft's voice, "but haven't you always said that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth? Is it possible that my Wolf, my Soldier Boy, and the Detective could all be suffering the same delusion?"

"Possible?" Sherlock whispered. "Yes. But not very likely."

"A massive coincidence," the TARDIS said, and she had Mycroft's mannerisms perfect- he cocked his head and raised his eyebrow most convincingly. "And what do we say about coincidence?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock answered, relaxing a fraction.

The TARDIS transformed one last time to a sandy-haired man in a jumper and jeans with a gentle smile. "Actually, that's not entirely true," John Watson's image said. "Coincidences are more what the universe does for fun, but you're close enough." The TARDIS turned back to Rose and continued, "it's nearly the end for me, but it's just at the beginning for you. We're traveling this road in different directions, you see."

"No," Rose said, frowning, "I don't."

The TARDIS smiled and waved her hand (John's hand) in a dismissive way. "What is in your future is in my past. This is the first time you've seen me, but I have seen you before now."

"All… right," Rose said, uncertainly. She continued to try to work it out and when she reached a conclusion, she frowned. "How long will this take? Our universe is at stake, and we haven't much time!"

"Keep faith, My Wolf," the TARDIS soothed. "It is not only your universe at stake. It is every universe. All of reality. You cannot give up hope, no matter how long it takes."

"But what about this place and this time?" Sherlock spoke from the door. "We're in Pompeii and a man told me that tomorrow is 'Volcano Day.' Isn't there something we can do? Something the Doctor can do? Where is he?"

The TARDIS turned to him sternly. "What happens here must happen, and the Doctor will ensure that it happens. He will save what little can be saved, including himself. You are not to interfere. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock took a step back from the angry gaze of his flatmate. He knew it wasn't really John, but he couldn't seem to halt the response.

The TARDIS turned back to Rose again. "You cannot change what happens here, My Wolf. Go back. Return to me as soon as you are able. We will save the universe and the Doctor together, as once we did."

Rose's face drained of colour. "TARDIS, that nearly killed me. It _did_ kill the Doctor."

The TARDIS in John's form gave her a half-smile, blue eyes sparkling. "Not like that, not again. You're right, I nearly burned you, and I am so sorry for that. I would not harm you again for anything save the universe, you know that?"

Rose bit her lip, but nodded. "If it comes to it… whatever has to happen, TARDIS."

"Never fear, my Wolf. There is nothing we cannot do together. Go now. Return home. Sleep, eat, and return to me."

Rose nodded, caressed the console one last time, and stepped down the ramp toward Mickey and Sherlock. The three turned to face the image of the man they all knew as he said "TARDIS voice interface shut-down," and disappeared.

Rose pressed the return button on her device, and in a flash of light they were all standing inside of the mirrors, as though they had not left.

~?~?~?~?~

Some hours later, as the Doctor and Donna pulled a lever between them that would devastate the city of Pompeii in a way that would shock and horrify humans for centuries to come, the TARDIS cried a terrible lament and, on the other side of the Void, Rose Tyler, for reasons that she could not explain, curled into Sherlock Holmes' chest and wept.


	7. The Naming

**Happy Fanfiction Friday, everyone!**

**Some of you may not know this, but Wholockgal, my most wonderful of betas, is currently publishing a RoseLock story herself called Fish Tales. It is wonderful and fun and glorious, and I highly recommend going right now and reading it. This story will wait.**

**As ever, I love reviews, but I also love anyone who reads these stories, whether they review or not.**

* * *

Sherlock woke when the warm, orange blossom-scented weight on his chest started to move. It couldn't have been more than an hour that they had been asleep, but Rose was constantly on the move, and an hour of stillness was all he could have expected from her, even if she had cried herself to sleep on his shoulder. The two of them did not share a bed- in part because the beds were so small, and in part because Rose now no longer seemed to need sleep. The previous day, however, there had been a knock on the door at which Sherlock had been throwing a squash ball to pass the time. He'd opened the door to find Rose standing there, white-faced and dark-eyed. She'd said nothing, had merely taken him by the hand and pushed him onto his bed, only to lay beside him and curl into him and weep like her heart was breaking. Sherlock had stroked her hair and rubbed her back and said nothing. She had fallen asleep after and Sherlock had been loath to move her. He'd had too little time to spend with her over the past several weeks, and his constant anxiety about what would happen when finally they met the Doctor was eased some as she lay in his arms.

She was moving now, however, stretching against him like a cat and rolling away from him and off the side of the bed to land with a clatter and a yelp onto his floor.

"You all right?" Sherlock asked, looking over the side of the bed at her looking bewildered and adorably shocked on the ground beside his bed.

"Not designed for two people, are they?" She muttered grumpily.

"Suppose not," Sherlock answered, feeling a small measure of hope that had been rising in him through the night fade away. It would be absurd for the pair of them to try to share one of these cells. There was no space.

"Guess I'm out of practice sleeping in odd situations. I'm sure that will rectify itself before long though," Rose said, climbing off of the floor and stretching again. Sherlock expected her to leave then, but she sat in his desk chair and dropped her head into her hands. "Gods, I feel like I've been hit by a lorry," she muttered into her hands.

"It's dehydration from crying," Sherlock said. "Much the same reason you feel like a train wreck after a night of drinking- your system needs water."

"I've a few bottles of water in my room," Rose said, indistinctly.

Sherlock, for once in his life, caught the hint. "Want me to go get you one?" he asked.

"Yeah," Rose grunted and rattled of the 10-digit code to her door.

Sherlock drew a hand across her shoulders in a comforting gesture and then entered her room. As he walked through the door, he gasped. Rose had been in her tiny room a month longer than he had been in his and it showed. The walls were papered with images of the stars. A majority of them he recognized as images of the phenomenon in the Medusa Cascade that they were trying to find a fix for from the Doctor, but there were others. The Rose Nebula, the God's Eye Nebula, spiral galaxies and vibrant stars. The walls were papered with them. Sherlock glanced at her desk and saw that, among her notes and calculations that littered it were pictures she'd drawn with exquisite care. A landscape of an alien world with creatures that looked a bit like flying manta rays. The blue box whose consciousness (and wasn't it strange to think in those terms about such an object, but Sherlock could not help his conversion) had taken on John's likeness. A rendering of a Cyberman. One of a creature that looked a bit like a pepper pot or a waste-paper basket. A green, grotesque alien with almost childish facial features. Finally, sorting through the pictures on her desk he found one toward the bottom of the pile. It was him. It looked like it had been drawn as he had turned away- not quite in profile, but not face-on either. Only one eye was visible, his nose, slightly over half his mouth. There was humor in his expression, and he was impressed with her technique. It was extremely accurate.

Sherlock looked at the sketch for a long moment. He had no eye for art, in truth, but he got a sense from that drawing that there was a great deal of affection behind it. Possibly even love. He scooped up a water bottle, set the drawing back on her desk (he didn't bother to tidy them) and returned to his own cell.

He'd taken longer than he should have, and Rose had raised her head from her hands and was looking at something she'd pulled in front of her from his desk.

"Where did you get this?" she asked when he'd entered the room. Sherlock came closer and saw that it was the card given to him by the American in Pompeii.

"Some bloke in Pompeii gave it to me. Told me his name was Captain Jack Harkness and offered to show me his 'merchandise.' Might have just been trying to pull me, it was very difficult to tell."

"Jack," Rose breathed, continuing to look at the card. "You said... Volcano Day. I should have realized. I'd forgotten he was in Pompeii. Stupid bastard with his stupid cons." She looked close to tears again.

"Who is he?" Sherlock asked. "That wasn't the Doctor, was it?" The man had been a perfect specimen of male beauty. If that was the man with whom he was competing for Rose's heart, he stood no chance.

"No," Rose said, shaking her head, still looking at the card as though it held all the answers to her life. "Captain Jack Harkness was a time agent from the 51st century. He was a con man turned hero, and he traveled with me and the Doctor for awhile. He was... one of my best friends. And he died."

"I wish you could have talked to him then," Sherlock said quietly, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"No," Rose said, shaking her head again. She finally looked up at him and continued, "he met me for the first time during the London Blitz, and that was after Pompeii. The Doctor and I wouldn't have put up with that kind of thing. No, it's best that he didn't see me. Timelines and all that."

"I understand," Sherlock said, nodding sagely.

Rose glanced over at him and smiled slightly. "No you don't."

"No, I don't," he agreed.

Rose smiled and opened the bottle of water and drank some. "Took you long enough," she said, holding up the bottle. "Got lost in the Medusa Cascade, did you?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "A bit, I suppose. I was looking at some of the drawings on your desk." He glanced at Rose who was taking another drink. She nodded for him to continue, clearly not upset by his breach of her privacy. "You're very good."

Rose shrugged one shoulder. "Used to be better. Back before I left school at 16, I thought I'd sit my A-levels in French and Art."

Sherlock hesitated again. "I found a picture you drew of me," he finally admitted.

"Yeah? Done a few, which one was it?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise that there were more than one. "Er… a three-quarter profile of my face."

Rose nodded. "I think that one turned out all right. I drew quite a few during that month I was here." She suddenly looked down as though she couldn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes. "I… I missed you."

Had Mycroft and Moriarty stood before him with guns to his head threatening his life if he showed any emotion, Sherlock could not have stopped the smile that came to his face. Rose wasn't looking at him, however, and once she finally did, he had schooled his expression back to neutrality again. "How did you sleep last night?" he asked.

Rose blushed again. "Really, really well, actually. Better than usual. You?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, the same. Better than usual."

The two of them sat in silence for a long moment before they both started to speak at the same time.

"Would you like.." Sherlock began before cutting off.

"Do you think you…" Rose said.

"Oh." Rose looked at him, blushing pink again. "You go ahead."

"No, no," Sherlock answered. "Please."

"No, it's fine, I.."

"Rose," Sherlock admonished.

"All right then. Um… do you want… that is… would you like to… share a bed? Not for… I mean, just to sleep, but… well… we both seemed to sleep better than usual last night so maybe… I thought you might want to. But of course, these rooms are really small, and you probably don't want to share your space, and really, the beds are barely big enough for one so it's fine if you don't, I'd completely understand."

"Yes," Sherlock said with certainty.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

The two of them sat for a long moment, grinning at each other stupidly. Rose reached forward to take Sherlock's hand in hers and pressed a kiss onto the back of it.

"I don't think you can move any of your clothes or… things into here though," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Right, no… no space. But having two workstations is probably best anyway, yeah?"

"Yeah."

~?~?~?~?~

The second time that they jumped across the void, they found themselves on a squalid street beneath an overhanging pavilion right next to the TARDIS.

"I think we're back in Britain," Rose said, glancing around. "Late 16th century, from the clothes."

"London," Sherlock said, musingly, also looking around. "It looks like London to me."

Mickey looked at the pair of them with an amused eyebrow raised. He then walked up to a woman who was selling flowers a few steps over and, with a large, winning grin, said, "hullo! Can you tell me the year?"

"The year of our Lord, fifteen-ninety-nine," she answered, looking at the boy in front of her askance.

"Right, excellent," Mickey said with a smile. "Er… can you tell me what city we're in?"

The woman frowned in earnest now. "'Ow can you not know that then?"

"Look at me, I'm an idiot," Mickey said with a shrug and a grin.

The woman continued to glare at him a bit, but she did deign to answer. "You're in London, you are. Cheapside."

Suddenly, Rose and Sherlock were with them. Rose pulled Mickey's arm. "My dear boy, what have I told you about talking to strangers?" she asked him with a sparkle in her eyes. She turned to the flower seller. "I'm so sorry, was he bothering you? We're new to town, you see, and he just hasn't learned his manners yet." She turned to Mickey again. "Say you're sorry."

"M'sorry," Mickey mumbled, eyes on the ground and fighting to keep his grin from spreading across his face.

"Oh, new to town are you?" the woman cried, her entire demeanor changing from mildly suspicious to open and gossipy in an instant. "Now don't you believe a word of them rumors from across the river. Mr. Lynley died of natural causes, he did, no question. There was a doctor there and everything- he even had an apprentice (though I've never 'eard of a doctor 'avin' a _girl_ apprentice before). He said it were an imbalance of the humors. Does mean our William will be able to put on his show. _Love's Labors Won_, they're calling it."

"Oh yes?" Sherlock had finally started paying attention. "Can you tell us where Mr. Lynley's body is being kept then? I'm a… scientist. I study the humors, and a man who died from an imbalance could be most useful to my work."

By the end of this, all three listeners were looking at Sherlock as though he were mad. He gave a significant look to Rose and Mickey, but turned back to the flower seller with a smile.

Her suspicious look had returned, however. "You're one of them sorts what pokes about with dead bodies, are you? 'Snot Christian, that. Mucking about with the dead. What God makes dead should be left be, that's what I says."

"Noted," Sherlock said, shortly. "But can you tell me where Mr. Lynley's body is now?"

"Probably with the undertaker, no doubt. 'E's up on All Hallow's Street. It's the biggest house on the street, y'see. Don't think you should be botherin' him this time of night though."

"It is of utmost importance," Sherlock said. "Thank you for your assistance." With that, he grabbed Rose's hand and began pulling her along the road, Mickey jogging to keep up.

"We can't interfere, Sherlock," Rose hissed as they moved down the streets. "We could disrupt a causal nexus."

"Now you're just making things up," he said, turning right and tugging her along.

"Well… yes I am, but still. I wasn't able to ask the TARDIS if this is the right time or anything. We really shouldn't be doing this."

"A man who died under suspicious circumstances? Your Doctor somewhere about? William Shakespeare's lost play? Can you really resist?" Sherlock looked back at her and caught the flash of a grin across her face and knew that he had won.

"Damnit," Rose said, conceding. "This is supposed to be serious, you know. We're saving the universe."

"And learning a few things about it as we go, right?"

Rose sighed and glanced back at Mickey.

"Hard to pass up Shakespeare's London," Mickey said to her with a half-smile.

Rose shook her head. "Love your focus, boys. If the Reapers show up they'll eat you both first, as you're older than me."

They both laughed and continued up the road.

_Unbeknownst to the trio rushing through the city to find the body of a murdered man, a creature that was supposed to have been gone from the universe since the Dark Times faced the Doctor._

"_Fascinating. There is no name. Why would a man hide his title in such despair- oh, but look: there's still one word with the power of the days."_

"_The naming won't work on me."_

"_But your heart grows cold_

_The north wind blows_

_And carries down the distant…_

_Rose?"_

Sherlock felt a tug on his hand and then Rose released him. He heard Mickey gasp and turned to see Rose fallen unconscious to the ground, skin pale and eyes shut.

Mickey knelt beside her and pressed a hand to her chest, another to her wrist. "I think there's a pulse, but it's thready," he said, desperately.

"The return is in her pocket. Take us back to Torchood," Sherlock ordered curtly.

"But we don't know if this is where we need to be. Rose didn't check with the TARDIS or anything," Mickey said, his eyes wide and scared, meeting Sherlock's.

"So we'll come back, but we can't do this without her. You know that."

"We could take her to the Doctor?"

"We don't know where he is, she needs help now!"

"All right, all right," Mickey cried, looking down helplessly at his best friend. "We'll go back. She's gonna kill us for this, you know?"

"If she's alive to kill us, I might let her," Sherlock muttered and closed his eyes to the flash that took them back to the 21st century and the Torchwood Hub.


	8. Closure

**The alternative title to this chapter, as suggested by Wholockgal was "The Featherhead Returns and Gets What's Coming." You'll understand why when you read it.**

**There is a person in this chapter who was, unfortunately, treated very poorly by the writer of her episode, and I'd like to apologize for continuing that poor treatment. As an historical figure, this person was rather impressive, but was quite stupid in the episode. She remains stupid here because it's an episode visit, not a fix-it. I'm sorry about that.**

**I'm sure most of you have guessed what episode I'm talking about. If not, you'll see shortly. Please enjoy!**

* * *

Rose's eyes fluttered open to the stark white and bright lights of the Torchwood medical bay.

"Did we get attacked in Shakespeare's London?" she asked no-one in particular, thinking herself alone.

"No, you collapsed," came a voice a few feet in front of her.

Rose sat up and found the falsely-youthful face of Dr. Rory Stewart frowning at her from a seat beside her.

"Rory," Rose said, facing down the other man's glare with a cool look of her own, "I didn't just pass out unless we were attacked."

Dr. Stewart snorted through his nose. "You show signs of having been the victim of a psychic attack that should have put someone with your training out for about 20 minutes. You, however, have been out for two hours. Answer me why, Rose Tyler."

Rose frowned. "I can't."

"Oh I can," he said, sarcastically. "You're dehydrated, showing symptoms of exhaustion, and you're under-nourished. When was the last time you had a meal, Rose?"

Rose thought for a moment and realized that she could not remember. The last time she'd even thought of food had been… "I had tea and biscuits with Sherlock's brother in London," she said hesitantly.

"Mmhmm," Rory intoned sarcastically. "And not a bite of anything since save possibly a cup of tea. You do realize that you're no good to any of us, and no good to the universe if you're unconscious or dead, right?"

"Rory, I.."

He cut her off. "I know you're scared. We're all scared. But that doesn't mean that you can push yourself until you break. That's not going to help anyone. Now, I know that the boys are anxious to see you, and all three of you are probably anxious to leave, but will you do one thing for me, Rose?"

She nodded silently.

"Take an hour. You can still get another jump in today if you do, but take an hour and eat something. Make someone do a fish and chips run for you. Sit still, drink a lot of water, and eat a basket of chips. Then and only then do you have this doctor's leave to jump again. And, when you get back, please get some real sleep, okay? And don't make me pry into your personal life by telling that bloke of yours to tie you to the bed if you won't stay still for three hours at a minimum, all right?" Rory grinned as Rose blushed.

"Yes, Dr. Stewart," Rose said, the right side of her mouth rising in a smile.

"Good then, I'll let the boys come take a look at you."

Rory opened the door and Mickey and Sherlock filed in to Rose's bedside.

"What happened?" Mickey asked, looking over Rose's face in concern.

"She was psychically attacked," Dr. Stewart said, closing the door behind them. "But she's fine now, as long as she follows her doctor's orders. Shouldn't even have a headache. Now, Mickey, you've seen that she's fine, would you mind going and telling Harper that he's to go to the chippy and get lunch for everyone?"

Mickey looked at Rose again. "You sure you're all right?" he asked her earnestly.

"Of course I am, Mick," she said, smiling.

"I'm sorry we came back before we talked to the Doctor or the TARDIS or anything. We were worried about you."

"Stop it, Mickey," Rose said, putting her hand on his cheek. "No telling what you two would have gotten up to if you didn't have me keeping you in line," she added with a grin.

Mickey's shoulders relaxed with her joke. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek and then left to find Owen.

Dr. Stewart had already slipped out, so Rose and Sherlock found themselves alone.

Sherlock had held himself back from Rose as Mickey had rushed forward. He had taken stock of her appearance, finally making conscious note of things that he had seen but not yet observed before. She had dark circles under her eyes, there was a sallowness to her skin that had not been there before her experiences with Moriarty, she had lost almost 4.5 kilo since that time as well. She was competing with him for erratic sleeping and eating schedules, and, try as he might, he could not think of the last time that she had eaten any type of substantial meal.

"Whatever you're seeing, Rory saw it. He says I need to be eating and sleeping regularly, and if I don't he'll rescind my medical leave to jump," Rose said, as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth.

"The incentive of finding the Doctor will keep you healthy?" Sherlock asked. He couldn't seem to stop himself.

"The incentive of saving the universe, Sherlock," she said quietly and coolly. She waited for him. She had been waiting for him for weeks- months really. She'd been waiting for him to ask the question that she knew lurked in the back of his mind. She could have pushed the issue, but she wanted him to come to it in his own time and in his own way.

They had all the time in the world, as Humans do. Even if that was only six months, it was still time.

Sherlock did not ask, and Rose finally gave up the wait. "Rory said I'll need to start sleeping a bit more than I have been. Three hours a night minimum, he said, though I'm sure he wishes I'd go back to eight. What we talked about this morning... if you don't want to... if that's changed..."

"No," Sherlock said softly. "No, I haven't changed my mind."

Rose looked up again and smiled faintly. "Yeah. That's good. I haven't changed mine either."

It wasn't quite what they needed to hear from each other, but it was close.

~?~?~?~?~

After chips and a few bolstering cups of tea and nearly an hour spent seated and relaxing, Rose felt ready for another jump and both Rory and Sherlock agreed that her colour was better. Rory made a final threat about sleeping, and let her go.

When they opened their eyes from the flash of light again, they found themselves indoors for the first time.

"That's the Doctor," Mickey said sarcastically. "Always parking in the sitting room."

Sherlock looked around. Again, the place they had landed was oddly familiar to him. "Decorations look like mid-to-late 18th century and... I've been here before."

"What do you mean?" Mickey asked.

"What do you think I mean?" Sherlock asked irritably. "I mean I've been here before. Give me a moment to figure it out." He looked around the room intensely for another moment and then turned his gaze inward again. He found what he was looking for in a rarely-accessed memory from shortly after university. "This is the palace at Versailles," he said, triumphantly.

Mickey frowned. "We're in France? In the mid-1700s? Wait, but where's the TARDIS?"

Rose, who had been silent to this point, said softly, "she's over there. Look at the fireplace, Mickey."

Mickey followed Rose's outstretched hand to the fireplace on the other side of which, he knew, some thirty centuries and untold lightyears away was the TARDIS and his and Rose's past selves.

"So where is he?" Mickey asked, his voice full of violence. "Where's the Doctor? I've owed him for that stunt he pulled here for almost a decade now."

Sherlock looked at the pair of them. "What happened here? What does that fireplace have to do with anything? Where is the ship? And why are you going to attack the Doctor?" He didn't necessarily disagree with attacking the Doctor. Anything that could put that look of despair on Rose's face was worthy of violence against the perpetrator, but he needed more data.

"That," Rose said mechanically, nodding toward the fireplace, "is not a fireplace. It is a spatio-temporal hyperlink."

"A what?"

"A magic door," Mickey answered.

"It leads to a ship in the 51st century where Mickey, the TARDIS and I are waiting for the Doctor. Or, possibly, the Doctor is there with us. I don't know where we are in the timeline. But if the Doctor is here, he can't see us. It's too early. You know that, Mickey." All of this was said in the same distant, mechanical way.

Sherlock was growing tire of this manner of telling a story without explaining anything, and was about to insist that Mickey and Rose explain themselves fully when a voice from behind them spoke up.

"Rose? Is it you?"

Sherlock saw Rose close her eyes and straighten her shoulders as though to prepare to step into combat. She turned on her heel to face the speaker, and Sherlock and Mickey turned with her.

It was a blonde woman in her early 40s dressed in the height of fashion for the time. Her gown was dark green, her hair was impeccably styled, and she stood tall and straight, looking at Rose. She showed signs of great beauty that had been ravaged by illness.

The woman smiled slightly when Rose turned. "You have changed. Not so much as I have, but it is kinder of you to have done so than my Angel whose face never changes."

Rose inclined her head and said simply "Reinette." She gestured to Mickey and Sherlock. "May I present my comrades, Mr. Smith, who you met once, years ago, but to whom you were never properly introduced, and Mr. Holmes. Gentlemen, may I present Jeanne Antoinette Poisson, Madame Reinette Du Pompador."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He had, of course, heard of Madame Du Pompador- favorite mistress of King Louis XIV and source of nearly all of his political savvy. That Rose was on first-name terms with the woman should not have surprised him, and yet it did. He nodded stiffly rather than bowing, seeing that Rose and Mickey faced the woman without bending.

Reinnette coughed delicately into a scrap of silk and lace in her hand before looking at Rose, hope shining from her eyes. "Have you come to fetch me for my Angel? Are you here to take me to him?"

"No. I can't take you to the Doctor," Rose said softly, emphasizing the title carefully. "When did you last see him?"

"It was five years ago that I told him that I had moved the fireplace from my childhood home here to the palace. He told me to choose a star in the sky, and he would take me to see it." The older woman smiled sadly. "I seem to spend my entire life waiting on the whims of men." She stopped smiling then and gave Rose a shrewd look. "But why can you not take me to him?"

"I'm looking for him as well," Rose said. She gave no hint about the nature of their search or the future she knew was coming for this woman before her.

"So take me with you," Reinette said. It was an order, Rose could hear, from a woman used to having her orders followed. "I am sick and dying, and the doctors can do nothing for me. You are from another time and place- you can cure me and take me back to my Angel."

"And then?" Rose asked.

Reinette frowned. "What do you mean 'and then'?"

"Once you've found the Doctor, what will you do then? Travel with him? After that one star will you stay with him?"

"But of course," Reinette said, as though this were obvious.

"The Doctor's life is full of dangers, you know," Rose explained.

"He is my Angel and he will take care of me."

"But what if he can't? What if he's too slow, or he has to do something more important? What if you get hurt?"

"He is my Angel and he will always protect me," Reinette repeated, as though the repetition would make it true.

"Reinette, you have always been the most important person in your world, or very nearly. But when you travel with the Doctor, it's not about you, and it's not about him. It's about saving what can be saved and, even more, what must be saved. Sometimes, the Doctor will have to aim a weapon at you because hundreds or thousands of people will be saved if he does." _In Rose's head she heard a voice long gone saying 'I could save the world but lose you', and the same voice saying 'that thing killed hundreds of people.'_ "Sometimes he'll leave you behind because history demands that someone be saved." _She could hear the sound of breaking glass as he rode through to be someone else's knight in shining armor, leaving her behind, heart as broken as the mirror_. "Sometimes he'll be right and sometimes he'll be wrong, and sometimes when he's wrong you'll be able to talk him out of it, and sometimes when he's right you'll have to talk him into it." _She heard herself saying 'do it' and 'it's not the one pointing a gun at me' and 'five and a half hours.'_ "Usually, though, it's the Doctor that needs to be taken care of." _Through her mind danced a pair of broken blue eyes and a jawline tensed until a dimple popped out on it._ "It's the Doctor who needs to be reminded that on some days everybody lives." _But why did he say goodbye, Doctor?_ "And some days you need to be there because he needs a hand to hold." '_Better with two.' 'There's me.' 'Stuck with you? That wouldn't be so bad.' 'I made my choice a long time ago.'_ "The Doctor can't afford to stop running, so you have three options: you stay with him until the day you're too slow and he can't save you and you die on a distant world orbiting a distant star, or he sends you away so he doesn't have to watch you fall, or you walk away with your head held high and leave him with the memory of your pride."

Reinette stared at her, shock and horror and pain in her face.

"Look, I can't take you with me. I told you once that you were never supposed to know me, you were never supposed to know the Doctor, the only reason that you did is because someone broke the rules, and me taking you now would be breaking the rules even worse. I'm sorry, Reinette. I am so sorry. But I do know that the Doctor is looking for you, even now. He'll make it back to you if he can."

"He is coming for me?" Hope returned to Reinette's face, and Rose wondered if the woman had heard anything she'd said.

"He is. I hope he makes it to you," Rose said, knowing that he would not. "I wish you the best, Reinette."

"I hope that the next time you find my Angel, I will be with him."

Rose only nodded, glanced at the men who were there with her, and pressed the button to return to Torchwood.

Mickey turned to her. "Are you all right, Rose?"

She looked at him and gave him a wry smile. "Yeah, actually I am. I would never have chosen to go there, but… I think it's good that I did."

Mickey looked into her face for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, however, he seemed to find. He smiled a bit, patted her shoulder, and moved away.

Sherlock, however, stayed. "What was that all about?" he asked.

Rose sighed and turned to him. "It's… a bit of a long story. We should sit. I've a bottle of wine in my room we might need, 'slong as you don't mind drinking out of paper cups."

Sherlock nodded and followed Rose to her room where she opened a bottle of wine and handed him a paper cup full of the dark red beverage. He sat on the edge of her bed, and she sat in her desk chair. She took a long drink, and looked at the stars as she began her story.

"'S a bit like a fairy tale, y'see. Not one of those fairy tales you hear all the time now that Disney got their hands on 'em, but one of the old ones that doesn't always have a happy ending. Like the Little Mermaid or Heidi. They always make me sad. This one is a bit like those." She smiled and took another long drink from her cup, nearly emptying it. "Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was pretty enough, but not beautiful. She was clever enough, but not brilliant. She and her mum got by all right, but some months were better than others, and it was always a bit difficult. She was ordinary. She was born ordinary and she would have died ordinary, but one day she met a man who changed her world and made her extraordinary."

Sherlock listened silently. She had told this story before to him- she'd even started it the same way: once upon a time. He listened to her though, really listened, as he hadn't the last time. Because this time he knew the girl in the story so much better, and knew the pain behind the story so much more.

"Now that girl, she wasn't a princess, but that man, he wasn't a knight either. They needed each other. He was broken, but, growing up like she did, she was used to broken things and good at mending them. She did that for him- she mended him. And there came a day that the man was almost unrecognizable from the broken bloke she'd met so long ago, and when the girl asked him to promise her that he would never leave her, she discovered that he choked on the words. Shortly thereafter, they met a princess on the other side of a magic door. One moment the princess was a little girl, and the man saved her from her nightmares, and the next the princess was a woman and she had loved the man all her life, so when the princess' life was in peril, the man went to save her, and they danced, and the next time her life was in danger she called for him, and he went to her, leaving the pauper girl behind. He went knowing that there was no way back for him. He went knowing that he was leaving the pauper to her fate, alone in a time not her own, in a place that he could not find. But a stroke of luck- a fluke really- the man was able to return to the pauper who had waited for him, but he offered the stars to the princess, as once he'd offered them to the pauper, and when she died before he could give them to her, he mourned."

Rose sighed again, and poured more wine into her cup. "He apologized, of course, and the girl accepted his apology because she always did. And they ran and ran, but she never trusted him the same way again. She loved him, because she always had, but she knew he would leave her. And she held it in her heart, a cold place, until she met the princess again. The pauper had grown up in her own right, not into a princess, but into a warrior queen. She couldn't resent the princess anymore, and couldn't be angry with the man because each had done what they had thought was best, even if it was poorly devised. Even if it broke someone's heart. Even if it was foolish. Do you understand now?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I've never been very good with allegory," he admitted.

Rose laughed. "Sorry about that. Let's go to bed, I'll try to explain better."

Sherlock thought he hadn't heard as good an idea in some time.


	9. Unquiet

**And now we come to a chapter that makes both my Nine x Rose and my Sherlock x Rose shipper heart happy.**

**Recognizable dialogue comes from the episode of Doctor Who: The Unquiet Dead.**

**As ever, I love reviews! They don't make me write faster (since it's fully written) but they do make me happy!**

* * *

The next time the trio blinked into existence in another time and place, the first thing that they were struck with was the cold.

"Blimey," Mickey said, pulling his coat around him. "The Doctor decide to give England a pass and go for Siberia instead?"

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock said, irritably, adjusting his collar and shoving his hands into his pockets. "We're obviously still in Europe, it's just winter."

Rose only had eyes for the TARDIS, however. She walked over to the old, battered box and ran her fingers down the side. She felt a hum of greeting and smiled. She thought about entering, but looked around first, and realized where and when they were.

"Dear god," she murmured to herself and the TARDIS. "We've gone back to the beginning, haven't we my girl?"

In the distance, she heard an explosion. She knew where and when they were, but she could not help her instinct to run and try to help. She knew no one living had been in the building that had just blown up, and she mourned the girl that she had wanted so badly to help.

"Stop," she called to the boys as they ran past her toward the sound. "There's nothing we can do, I promise. Come on, we can watch from over there." She pointed to a small alcove that would keep them hidden from the people who were coming.

Rose wondered if it were a bit of narcissism that made her stay. She knew the timing was wrong, but she wanted to see. It wasn't herself though, she wanted to see _him_. The Doctor that she had loved and lost and come to love again with a different face. This was the first, however, and it was still the beginning.

"Here they come," she murmured as she heard the three voices approaching. There he was, all long and lanky and black leather. And there she was, softer and younger and dressed up like a doll. And Charles Dickens, just like she remembered- happy for the first time in a long time, and hopeful for a future he didn't have. It was so perfect. So beautiful that it was almost difficult to look upon. Like the hope and love in the scene was burning her eyes. Or maybe that was just the tears.

"It's him," Mickey whispered. "And you."

"The Doctor?" Sherlock asked.

"And Charles Dickens. The Doctor is the tall one in the leather," Rose said softly.

Sherlock looked at the man. The man Rose had loved so well. He supposed that he was attractive enough, but he looked twice Rose's age, and he had the most unfortunate ears. Sherlock was a vain enough man to know that he was more handsome than the man with whom the younger version of the woman at his side walked. But he could see the way she looked at him, and it was clear how much she esteemed him. The Rose beside Sherlock did not look at anyone like that.

Sherlock found his eyes drawn to the younger version of Rose Tyler. She was much the same, though her hair colour was slightly more believable now, and much of the softness of youth had gone from her face and body. She moved with more precision now, but there was still the instinctual sensuality about her hips and shoulders that was an intrinsic part of her makeup. Her eyes were still bright and her mouth was still over-wide and sensuous.

"You're very beautiful," Sherlock said, leaning down so that Mickey would not hear.

"For a human," she murmured, and had his head not been so close to hers, he would not have caught the statement. He did not understand it, however.

"All right then, Charlie-boy," the Doctor said as he approached the TARDIS. "I've just got to go into my... um... shed." He turned and nodded at Charles Dickens. "Won't be long."

The younger Rose looked at Charles Dickens. "What're you gonna do now?"

"I shall take the mail coach back to London. Quite literally 'post-haste.' This is no time for me to be on my own."

Sherlock noticed the way that the Doctor looked at Rose. He was obviously listening to Charles Dickens, but his eyes seemed to drift to his young, lovely companion with every few words as though he were gauging her reactions.

"I shall spend Christmas with my family," the author continued, "and make amends to them. After all I've learned tonight, there can be nothing more vital."

The Doctor took a step forward, a surprised grin on his face. "You've cheered up," he said to the apparently older man.

"Exceedingly!" Charles enthused and laughed. "This morning I thought I knew everything in the world. Now I know I've just started. All these huge and wonderful notions, Doctor. I'm inspired. I must write about them."

Rose (the younger one) had been grinning at Charles Dickens through these pronouncements. "Do you think that's wise?" she asked carefully so as not to dissuade the man's enthusiasm.

The Doctor looked at Rose as though she were the most clever creature in the universe. Sherlock's gut burned slightly. He had a feeling that he did not look at her with the reverence that this man did, nor was he capable of it.

"I shall be subtle – at first," Charles assured her. "_The Mystery of Edmund Drood_ still lacks an ending. Perhaps the killer was not the boy's uncle. Perhaps he was not of this Earth. _The Mystery of Edmund Drood and the Blue Elementals_." Both the Doctor and Rose seemed to find some amusement in this. "I can spread the word, tell the truth!"

"Good luck with it," the Doctor said, reaching forward and shaking the other man's hand. "Great to meet you. Fantastic."

Rose stepped forward and took his hand as well. "Bye then," she said with her usual brilliant grin, "and thanks." She then leaned forward and pressed a kiss onto Charles Dickens' cheek.

The author and the Doctor both looked shocked at her action. "Oh my dear," Charles said, breathlessly, "how modern."

The Doctor seemed completely speechless, and continued to stare at Rose as Charles Dickens continued. "Thank you, but... I don't understand... in what way is this goodbye? Where are you going?"

The Doctor finally peeled his eyes away from his companion and said, "you'll see. In the shed."

"Oh my soul. Doctor it's one riddle after another with you." The author straightened himself, seeming to steel himself for one more volley. "After all these revelations," he said, "there's one mystery you still haven't explained. Answer me this... who are you?"

The Doctor hesitated for a long moment, seeming to give the question some thought. "Just a friend," he said, "passing through."

"But you have such knowledge of future times," Dickens called out before the Doctor could disappear into the ship. "I don't wish to impose on you, but I must ask you... my books? Doctor, do they last?"

The Doctor's face split into a wide, brilliant grin and Sherlock heard Rose gasp from beside him. There was something impossibly powerful, innocent, and ancient in that smile.

"Oh yes," the alien said, taking a step toward Charles Dickens and continuing to smile.

"For how long?" the author asked timidly.

"Forever," the Doctor answered. Charles Dickens looked close to tears with this announcement. After a moment the Doctor seemed to remember himself and turned to Rose. "Right," he said to her. "Shed. Come on, Rose."

"In... in the box?" Dickens asked, sounding a bit shocked. "Both of you?"

"Down boy," the Doctor said, warningly, leaning out the door and giving Charles a significant look. "See ya."

Charles Dickens remained outside the TARDIS, watching it curiously. Rose could remember what she and the Doctor had talked about upon entering the ship. He had told her that Charles Dickens would die within 12 months with _The Mystery of Edmund Drood_ still unfinished. He would reconcile with his family, and he would have hope until the end, but his end was coming.

When the TARDIS made its wheezing groan and disappeared from view, Charles Dickens laughed and left, walking toward home and his new lease on life.

"He never finished that story," Sherlock said quietly.

"It's 1869, Christmas Eve," Rose said, quietly. "He dies in 1870. But he knew that he would live forever, and he had hope until the end. Hope is a good emotion. I quite like hope." She sighed and looked at Mickey and Sherlock with a small, sad smile. "Let's go back. We'll get some tea and try again." She looked at where the TARDIS had been and smiled a bit wider. "They're off to go get slapped by my mum, questioned by the police, and save the world with a buffalo."

Mickey laughed, and Sherlock gave her a very strange look. Rose did not explain.

~?~?~?~?~

The next jump landed them next to the TARDIS on a windy and deserted moor. For a long moment, the three city dwellers simply stood and allowed the cold air to blow their lungs clean.

"All right, I'll ask," Sherlock said, having turned on the spot twice, "where are we?"

"Nothing to identify it?" Mickey teased.

"We are _not_ in Sheffield, 1979 at an Ian Dury and the Blockheads concert," Rose said with a grin before the boys could start sniping at each other.

"No," Mickey agreed sarcastically, "we're not. What's that to the price of tea?"

"Well, it was where we were aiming. The Doctor was going to take me to a concert but… well, you know his driving," she said and rolled her eyes.

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked.

"Scotland, 1879. And about two miles that way," Rose pointed north, "is the Torchwood Estate. We're at the branching point of the two universes, boys. Very exciting, that."

"So this isn't the right time?" Mickey asked.

"This isn't the right time," Rose agreed.

For a long moment the three continued to stand there, on that hill overlooking the Scottish countryside. Rose looked north as though imagining what was happening to her past self in a manor house some miles away. Mickey looked around- he'd never been to Scotland before and wasn't terribly impressed. Sherlock looked at Rose- there was something she wasn't saying, and he was very interested in the mystery of why she was lying.

"So… back to Cardiff?" Mickey asked.

Rose nodded. "Back to Cardiff."

When they arrived back in the hub, inside of the circle of mirrors Rose released a long breath.

"I think I'm going to go have a swim. If we want to jump again today we can, but give me a couple of hours, all right?" She did not wait for a response before leaving them.

As she pulled herself through the water, Rose thought about the nature of time and the universes. She had been tempted, standing on that hill, knowing what was going to happen, to take time into her own hands. It was the events of that day that had pulled her away from the Doctor in the first place- Queen Victoria had declared an anathema upon them, Torchwood had been formed, Torchwood had played with powers beyond their ken, and Rose had nearly fallen into the Void because of them. Where would she be if she could change the events of that day?

It was Sherlock's nearness that had stayed her hand. The universe that had him in it was created on that day. With a change to the events at the Torchwood manor, would it have happened? If the second universe had never been created, would Conan Doyle have written his stories? What would have been changed and what would have been broken in the prime universe with even that tiny change? More personal was the fact that she would never have met him. She would have run with the Doctor until the day she was too old to keep up, or until the day she died, or until the day he gave up on her (as she'd told Reinette), and if she'd returned home after a lifetime of running with the Doctor, what would she have done? This universe had given her a second chance- to re-make herself in the image of someone she was proud to be, to find love with a man as mad as the Doctor but able to grow old beside her, to find her adventures in the every-day.

No, Rose concluded, she would not want to change it. Horrible as things were for a while, they were better now.

She pulled herself from the water, showered, changed, and made her way back to her room. She was unsurprised to find Sherlock inside when she opened the door.

"You usually run," Sherlock said as she walked in. "When you want to exercise for pleasure rather than training, you usually run."

Rose cocked her head to the side, uncertain of where this was going.

"When you run, there's an implicit invitation that someone could join you," Sherlock continued. "Even if you wear your headphones and do not talk, there is a certain camaraderie in running. Swimming is different. It's fully solitary. You did it to give yourself time to think and time to yourself. You wanted to change things today."

Rose sighed. "I can't say that the idea didn't occur."

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't. The laws of time aren't my playthings."

"Is that the only reason?"

"No. I don't know what might have happened if I'd changed what happened that day. This universe might have winked out of existence. The universe there might have been irrevocably changed and my life would have gone extremely differently. I might have died beside the Doctor, or run with him until my days ended. But my mother would have never had her second chance with my father, Mickey would never have been able to become the brilliant man he is today, I'd never have grown beyond the Doctor and… I'd never have met you. The price was too high."

"And the swim?"

"Just had to remind myself of all of that."

Sherlock looked at her for a long moment, but seemed satisfied with what he saw. "Do you want to jump again today?" he asked.

"I think so, but we should get some food first. Things are starting to get serious." That morning had seen the first article in the papers about the stars going out. Most people weren't paying attention, but it would soon be visible to the naked eye, and then people would begin to panic. The need to find the Doctor was getting more pressing and while Rose thought that they were on the right track, it was taking longer than she could have hoped, if as long as she expected.

"Mickey requested pizza. Is that all right for you?"

"Can I have pineapple on my pizza?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you must."

Rose grinned. "I insist."

Sherlock smiled, but took her hand to pull her in the direction of the kitchen, but found that she would not move. He turned to look at her and her grin had faded to be replaced with a look that Sherlock could not quite read.

"Sherlock," Rose said, stepping toward him, into his space. "I… I just want to tell you… well… I'm so glad I met you."

She was so close that he could feel the warmth from her body though they were touching nowhere except where he had her hand enclosed in his.

In his head, Sherlock wanted to tell her that he would never wish upon her the pain that he knew she had felt when the Doctor had abandoned her on a space station, or sent her away from him, or allowed her to nearly fall into the void. He would not wish the depression and fear and tears of being abandoned in another world upon her. If he could take it all from her, let her have lived her life without them, he might have done it, just for her smile. But he did not have the power and he was pathetically grateful that she was there beside him, against all odds. She had chosen him and, even if he couldn't yet say it, he had chosen her.

All he was able to say, however was "yeah, me too."

And then they were touching. She had leaned into him, risen up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. And it wasn't just their lips that were touching, she was pressed against him all the way down- breasts and belly and hips and thighs all pulled tight against his. And Sherlock realized that it had been weeks since they had kissed like this- since a rooftop where a kiss had saved his life- because saving the universe had gotten in the way. And why, oh why had he let it go this long? How had he nearly forgotten how much he needed this contact with her- where she drove away all thoughts from his mind and left it blank and bright and full of nothing but pink and gold and Rose.

Rose wondered for a moment if she had done something wrong. Sherlock did not respond to her, and she did not quite understand it. It had been some time since last she had kissed him, but they were sharing a bed (for sleeping) and she had not believed that the nature of their relationship had changed. Then, just as she was about to pull away, blush, and ask for an explanation, he had dropped her hand and wrapped his arms around her waist and suddenly he was an active, hungry participant. Rose smiled against his mouth and slid one hand into his dark curls, scraping her short fingernails across his scalp, and the other hand slid around his waist, under his jacket, to the long, warm muscles of his back.

Sherlock might have reveled in the blissful quiet of his mind and the blissful sensations of his body ad infinitum, had a pointed cough not come from the door to Rose's room which had been left open. Sherlock raised his head from Rose's mouth, but did not release his arms from around her waist. At the door was Mickey, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Er… just thought I'd tell you that I put the order in for the pizza. It should be here in about 30 minutes. Ehm… guess you can go back to doing what… what you're doing," he said, then scurried off back down the hall.

Sherlock glared after him for a long moment then bent to take Rose's lips again. This plan was made difficult by the fact that she had collapsed into giggles against his chest.


	10. Fire and Ice and Rose

***Everyone shakes their fist at Mickey in the last chapter***

**As ever, I do not own Doctor Who, I don't own Sherlock, I don't own anything useful except a manual-transmission Ford Focus and a pair of cats.**

**Have you read WhoLockGal's RoseLock story, Fish Tales yet? It's excellent (and extremely well-edited)!**

**Leave me reviews and I'll probably love you forever!**

* * *

After pizza (and Mickey making kissing noises at intervals at his friends over the meal) the three dimension-travelers got ready for another trip across the void. This time, when they landed, it was almost full dark and the air around them was musty.

Rose withdrew a small torch from her pocket and shone it around the interior of a little outbuilding, dilapidated and abandoned, as best she could tell.

"The Doctor always chooses the nicest places to vacation," she complained, finally shining the light on the TARDIS. "Come on the, let's see if she's got anything to say about where and when we are." She let them into the time ship only to discover, to all of their surprise, that she was nearly as dark as the night outside.

"What has he done to you?" Rose cried in shock and horror as she ran up to the console to stroke it consolingly. A low chime sounded from the ship, and the monitor screen started to flash. "What have you got for us," Rose murmured to the ship as the boys followed her up the ramp to stand behind her. She hit the button that would play whatever was queued up on the monitor.

A video came up on the screen of a slim man with a thin face. Sherlock heard both Rose and Mickey whisper the word "Doctor" as he began to talk in a fast Estuary accent about how he had turned himself into a human to hide from an alien threat. He warned his companion (Martha, he called her) about several things, including guarding a pocket watch that he claimed held his personality and memories. Mickey and Rose seemed to be drinking in the information, but Sherlock was more interested in the man. He had wide, dark brown eyes, brown hair, freckles and very straight teeth. His ears were less prominent than his last body, but one of them was just slightly off-center from the other. He was, in truth, very good looking and Sherlock was worried about the way Rose was watching him with her mouth just slightly open and her eyes wide.

When finally the video ended with a final 'thank you' to Martha, Mickey finally spoke up. "The fob watch thing is true?" he asked Rose.

"Apparently," she answered in surprise.

"So he's out there, being a human, not knowing who or what he is? In…" they both realized, simultaneously, that they didn't know when or where they were.

"Well, when, or wherever we are, he's got this Martha to keep an eye on him. She's traveling with him so she must be good."

It did not pass Sherlock by that Rose looked worried.

"You want to go check on him, don't you?" he asked.

"No!" Rose cried, then grimaced (a bit like the man in the video, and wasn't it strange how many of her natural expressions seemed to mirror his?) and said, "well, actually yes. But I'm sure he's fine. The TARDIS wouldn't let him get into too much trouble, even if Martha did. Which I'm sure she didn't."

"Rose," Mickey said, pointing at something that had just popped up on the monitor, "what's that?"

Rose turned to look, and all of the colour drained from her face. "There are aliens here that aren't the Doctor. He's been found." She looked at the information that the TARDIS was displaying and her eyes widened and her mouth opened in shock. "This is bad. This needs the Doctor. No one else is going to be able to handle it, especially not his 'John Smith' character. Bloody _John Smith_," she muttered like an expletive. "Come on, let's see if we can give them some time," Rose said, and gestured to the men to follow her out of the TARDIS.

As the trio left the shed and started to jog down the road that presumably led to town, Mickey piped up. "Maybe, if we can catch them before they get to the town, we can deal with the aliens and no one'll get hurt. The Doctor'll have his three months and then he'll go back to saving the world."

As though it had been given a cue, a bell began to ring in the city. It wasn't a clock bell, it sounded like an alarm bell.

"I would deduce that it's officially too late for that," Sherlock said drily.

"No shit, Sherlock," Mickey muttered under his breath.

The trio took off running at top speed for the town. When they reached the square, they found a surprising number of people in formal dress milling about rather aimlessly.

Rose walked up to a man who looked like he might be one of the village leaders. "Excuse me, sir? Can you tell me what's going on? I'd like to help, if I can."

The man completely ignored her, looking over her head as though she weren't there.

"Oi," Rose said, hotly, "excuse me. Have I gone invisible?"

Mickey and Sherlock joined her with the man who turned to Sherlock as he approached. "Is this your wife?" he asked.

"What year is it?" Rose asked, interrupting whatever Sherlock's response was going to be.

The man finally gave up pretending to ignore her, and instead looked at her down the end of his long nose. "I beg your pardon?"

"Just answer the question. What's the year?"

"It is nineteen-hundred and thirteen, and you would do well to learn to speak to your betters properly."

"Nineteen-thirteen," Rose muttered to herself irritably. "Bloody fantastic." She looked at Mickey and Sherlock and gestured with her head that they should take a step away from the man who was giving her a most scandalized look.

As the three stepped away, Rose pulled the two men into a huddle with her. "Nineteen-thirteen means that no one is going to listen to a word that Mickey or I have to say. We're going to need a white man with a public school accent and, as luck would have it, we've got one. So guess what?" she asked, turning to Sherlock. "You're in charge of the evacuation effort. Try to get as much information as possible then tell them that you're going to send everyone away. I'll try to help with the women- but they'll probably still not like me much considering what I'm wearing and Mickey," she looked apologetically at him.

"I'll point people in the right directions and mostly keep my mouth shut," Mickey said with a wry smile.

"I'm so sorry, Mick," Rose said, quietly.

"It's the trouble of time travel, you know," he said, patting her on the shoulder.

"More important, Sherlock, you can't tell people your name. Those stories are either around or going to be around soon. Your name is famous. You can't use any name that's connected with you because I don't know what Conan Doyle wrote about you and what he didn't."

"I'll be..." Sherlock hesitated for a moment then ground out, as though it were painful to say, "William Scott. That should be ubiquitous enough."

Mickey and Rose looked at each other in surprise. "Yeah," said Rose easily. "Sounds perfect."

"Why Will-" Mickey began, but cut off when Rose stamped on his toe.

The trio split up- Sherlock to talk to the men and get a plan worked out, Rose to talk to the women and see if there was anything she could do to help, and Mickey to fade back into the shadows until he was needed.

Sherlock learned from the men what had happened at the village dance. He suggested that the people might come back, and one of the men confirmed that they seemed to have an army of people dressed as scarecrows with them. Sherlock suggested that people get out of the town and asked whether there was a farm with a large barn that people could hide in until things blew over. One of the other men agreed to allow people to stay in his barn outside of town. Sherlock gave instructions to the men to see to that as quickly as possible, and directed them to Mickey if they had any further questions. He then went in search of Rose.

He found her telling the women to get their children and go wherever it was that her 'husband' had worked out to go. They seemed to be listening to her, though there were a few that were still looking askance at her clothing. When Rose had waved them all off to their homes she turned to Sherlock.

"They've taken the images of locals, including a child," she said without preamble.

"And they've an army of scarecrows and were last seen headed toward the boarding school up the way," Sherlock said, pointing in the general direction he'd been told. "Your Doctor is a teacher there."

"So his Martha must be as well. I hope she hasn't lost him. I hope she has that bloody pocket watch of his too."

They both heard a gasp from behind them and Rose turned to see a small, blonde boy in his early teens was looking at her as though she were a ghost.

"You're Rose Tyler," the boy said in a breathless voice.

Rose glanced around, but the only person listening was Sherlock. She gestured the boy to come closer and he did. "Yeah, I am," she said softly, "but it's best if you don't go bandying that name about around here, all right. How do you know me?"

The boy held up a silver pocket watch with circular symbols across the face.

"You have the watch? But... Martha?" Rose said, suddenly scared. The Doctor's companion would know when to open the watch, but some teenager from 1913 couldn't possibly know.

"It spoke to me," he said quietly. "It asked me to protect it. The Doctor. But... It's you he wants, Rose." He looked at her with such large, earnest eyes, that Rose found it impossible to look away. "The Doctor has been speaking to me. He's... he's terrible."

"Yeah, he is," Rose agreed. "But he's wonderful too. He's fire, but he's also ice. He's rage, but he's also compassion. You've seen all of that, haven't you? He's not just the terror, right?" She was legitimately afraid of his answer. If the Doctor was so lost that this perceptive boy couldn't see the goodness in him, then there was no hope for the universe. Fortunately for her, the boy nodded.

"He wants to be with you," the boys said, holding the watch out. "Take it."

Sherlock's heart broke to hear their words. The Doctor still wanted Rose- he had not moved on, as Sherlock had hoped he would. He had not forgotten her. He was still pining, and Rose still spoke so gently and lovingly of the alien that she had once loved so well.

Without thinking, Rose reached forward to touch the watch and she was suddenly overwhelmed with images, real as life. There was her, as she stood in the basement of Henrick's, the first time she saw the Doctor's face as he told her to run. There she was, stepping into the console room in a Victorian gown, and she was almost impossibly beautiful. There she was on the view screen, standing beside a Dalek, but still alive. There she was in a red hoodie on Satellite Five. There she was in a scarf and mini-skirt in Cardiff. There she was being menaced by the Anne Droid on the Gamestation. There she was on the view screen, alive. There she was all gold and powerful and terrible. There she was looking at him with fear and hope as he reminded her of that first word. There she was saying she would still go with him. There she was in a denim mini-dress in a Victorian manor house. There she was in a pink dress in 1950s London. There she was in a fuchsia hoodie on the Torchwood base. There she was in a sunshine yellow top at the 2012 Olympics. There she was falling toward the void. There she was on Bad Wolf Bay. Then it was her on Bad Wolf Bay again, and the Doctor holding out his hand to her. Finally, it was a woman who was older than Rose, with golden ringlets, and green eyes, and a knowing smirk.

Rose came back to the world around her to see that everything was going mad. People were running and screaming again, and nothing seemed to be organized. She turned to Sherlock, whose blue-gold eyes were fixed on her.

"Get these people evacuated Sher- William. Get them safe, and keep yourself safe, all right?"

He nodded and left. Rose turned to the boy in front of her.

"You need to take this to your professor. John Smith. You know the one. He has to open it, but don't you dare mention me."

"But he wants-"

"I know what he wants," Rose said softly, "but it's not the right time. He's got things he has to do without me. Things that matter more than me, do you understand?"

The boy gave a small shake of his head and continued to look at Rose imploringly.

"Go now. The Doctor will need to save us all," Rose ordered and pushed the boy gently toward the road. He finally began to walk away, glancing back twice before he started to run.

Rose scanned the chaotic crowd until she found a familiar head of dark curls. She slid her hand into Sherlock's once she reached him, and he glanced down at her with an unreadable expression in his light eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm always all right," she murmured.

Sherlock did not believe her, but less than ten minutes later, the aliens were firing on the town (which had, fortunately, been largely evacuated) and issuing threats to the Doctor. Rose, Mickey and Sherlock were occupied getting the remaining stragglers out of the village before the destruction reached them. When finally, everyone that could be was removed from the village, Rose found Sherlock and Mickey again.

"Someone mentioned a falling star that looked like it landed in a field south of town. They said that John Smith and one of the maids from the school had both talked about it at the public house the other night. That's where we need to be."

She looked at Mickey and Sherlock as though expecting some resistance, but both men nodded. "Lead on," Mickey said, gesturing.

The three ran through the village and to the south. As they approached the outskirts of the farming community that made up much of the area, Rose suddenly stopped, an arrested look on her face.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I don't know," she answered, frowning. "I... I think the Doctor might be awake."

Mickey and Sherlock shared a look that Rose did not notice or did not acknowledge. After a moment she shook her head and began running toward their destination again, the men trailing after her.

When they reached the field to which Rose had been directed, they saw a tall, slim man in an old-fashioned suit moving through it with purpose.

"He is awake," Rose murmured.

"Are you sure?" Mickey asked, pulling Rose into a copse of trees so they were out of his sight. "What if that's John Smith?"

"Look at how he moves," Rose said softly, watching the man walk with hungry eyes. "Even when he's not wearing it, you can practically see that coat of his billowing out behind him."

Sherlock had no idea what she was talking about, but Mickey seemed to understand. Suddenly, the man disappeared.

"The ship must be cloaked," Mickey said.

"I think we should give him five minutes," Sherlock said quietly, deciding he needed to be an active participant in the plan. "If he hasn't handled it by then, we'll go in and see what we can do to help." He half-expected the pair to tell him the the Doctor needed longer than that, but to his surprise, they both nodded and settled in to keep time.

After three and a half minutes, the thin man and four figures raced across the field and an explosion threw Rose, Mickey and Sherlock to the ground.

When finally they recovered, Rose stood. The thin man and the three fleeing aliens were nowhere to be seen. Sherlock and Mickey stood as well.

"Should we go find them?" Mickey asked.

"No," Rose said decisively. "He can handle it from here, now that he's the Doctor again. We should go. This isn't ours to save anymore, we've already done more than we should. We need to get back to Cardiff."

The three jumped back to their own time and place.

_Not far from where they had stood, the last of the Time Lords, driven by grief and anger showed no mercy to the creatures that had hunted him down. He remembered his life as the professor, John Smith- a man who had been free to love because he was a mortal man. Though he could remember the feelings that man had held for Joan Redfern, they were no longer keenly felt. Instead, all that remained in both his hearts was a sense of lost opportunity, and regret for a perfect Rose._


	11. Something Shocking

**Those of you on Tumblr with me saw this chapter teased during the writing. I hope you like it as much now as you did then.**

**Doctor Who, Sherlock, and all other things lovely belong to their respective owners. I'm just trying not to hurt their toys too badly.**

**Read, review, recommend!**

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Upon landing back in Cardiff, Mickey, Rose and Sherlock wordlessly agreed that it was time to take some sleep.

Their sleep and food schedules had become so convoluted that they simply took both when they needed to rather than trying to schedule either. Sometimes they would return from the Prime universe and only minutes had passed. Sometimes it would be hours or, more frighteningly, days. It did not seem to matter how long they had been in the Prime universe, the time passed differently when they were home, so they slept when they were exhausted and ate when they were hungry. Even Rory had given up trying to keep them on a schedule, only making them promise to keep themselves fed and rested as best they could.

Sherlock usually had little enough patience with his own need for sleep and food when there was work to be done, but after being threatened by a 45-year-old man with a sailor's vocabulary and a 12-year-old's face, even he had given in to the doctor. He also found that sleeping with Rose's warm presence beside him was less of a chore than it might have been otherwise, and if he ate, it meant that Rose ate, and keeping her healthy seemed a good enough reason to move beyond his usual nature and eat with some regularity as well.

When Sherlock had changed from his dirty clothes into soft cotton trousers and a vest, he knocked on Rose's door. Receiving no answer, he entered with the code that he had and found her already asleep on her bed. She looked as though she had collapsed there moments after walking in. The only concessions to comfort she had made were pulling her hair from the sleek tail into which it had been tied, and tossing her blue jacket carelessly across the back of her desk chair. She was wearing everything else she had been when they had left that morning, including her boots.

Sherlock smiled slightly. All of the energy of her warmth and light, movement and thought were snuffed when she was asleep. She went out like a light and was incomprehensible until she woke, be it twenty minutes or ten hours later. They were due for a long sleep, however, (it had been several days of catching an hour and continuing) and Sherlock did not want her to wake uncomfortable.

Sherlock turned her over so that her face was no longer buried in the pillows. "Rose?" he said, trying to wake her enough to get her assistance and consent before he began removing her clothes.

"M'tired. Le'e me 'lone," she muttered, trying to curl back in on herself.

"Rose, you fell asleep in your clothes, don't you want to get out of them?"

"Not in the mood. Too tired."

Sherlock blushed slightly. "That wasn't what I meant. You'd be more comfortable without them."

"If you want," she murmured, slitting her eyes open a fraction. "Just don't wake me up." She shut her eyes and her muscles went limp and loose again.

Sherlock shook his head at her, though he knew she couldn't see him. The least he could do was to take off her boots. He settled himself on the end of her bed and pulled her feet into his lap. She muttered something incomprehensible from the head of the bed, but did not wake. He unlaced and removed her boots without incident, but as he took off her socks, his fingers grazed across the bottom of her foot and she squirmed.

"Stoppit. Tickles," she said, slightly more lucidly than before.

Sherlock looked up and saw that she had one eye open again and was glaring at him. He couldn't help but smile at the picture she made- tousled and pink-cheeked and just a big cranky.

"Sorry. Do you want to sleep in your jeans?" he asked.

"N'really," she mumbled. "Too tired t' take 'em off."

"I will endeavor to assist you to the best of my abilities," Sherlock said pompously, trying to coax a smile from her.

"Knew somewhere in that big, mad brain of yours was an ordinary bloke who just wanted to get into my trousers," she murmured quietly.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond to this, and determined that the better part of wisdom was simply to ignore her and work on getting her comfortable. He carefully locked away emotion and sentiment and set to work on the fastening of her trousers with a clinical detachment. Even the flash of purple silk and lace of her knickers did not get a reaction from him (though there was some aspect of his personality which seemed to be pounding at the door behind which he had locked it). He managed to avoid a response, though his defenses cracked as he drew the denim down her long legs, his fingers running over warm, smooth skin. When he finally removed the denim from her and tossed it onto the small pile of laundry, control still intact (if slightly dented) he felt a surge of pride. He turned to look at her, and his breath caught.

She was a vision of softness, sweetness, and sex. Her legs were long and toned and golden against the grey of her coverlet. The black vest top she had been wearing that day rode up above her purple knickers, giving a view of her flat stomach and navel. Her hair was tossed across the pillow, her eyes barely open, but watching him, her lips full and just slightly parted, her cheeks flushed pink. She was Aphrodite, she was Freyja, she was Brigid, she was Salue.

"That all you need?" he asked, pleased that his voice was able to remain neutral as thoughts ran riot in his mind.

"Shouldn't sleep in my bra," she said softly.

He could tell by her diction that she was awake now. She could, technically, do this herself, he knew. He also knew that there was a slight challenge in the words- would he call her out on being awake? Would he tell her to take it off herself? Or might he, instead, take the opportunity that she was offering here?

Sherlock did a quick self-appraisal. Could he, in truth, put his hands on her and then leave the pair of them to sleep? They were both exhausted and objectively needed the sleep more than anything else, and he would not risk both of their health (not to mention the possibility of risking their lives if they were too fatigued to see a potential threat) for sexual recreation. He thought he could, and his fingers itched to touch her again. Sherlock was no stranger to self-denial and delayed gratification, but he had been delaying with Rose for the better part of a year. It seemed as though, perhaps, the time had finally come to move forward.

Without a word, Sherlock gently pushed Rose over onto her side. He slowly slid his hand up the back of her shirt, allowing his fingers to skate over skin like velvet until he found the clasp of her bra. The mechanics of the device defeated him for a moment, but Rose remained patient and still until he had worked out the direction of the hooks and loosened the garment correctly. He then indicated for Rose to roll back onto her back and drew his fingertips over her shoulders to bring the straps down. Her eyes were fully open, pupils dilated, and her breathing was just a bit heavier than it should be, lying mostly still. She assisted him to get the straps over her arms, then lay still again to see what he would do. He slid his hands slowly up her stomach to the bottom of her bra, allowed his fingertips to graze the underside of her breasts- he didn't smile when her breath hitched, not really- then removed the garment from under her shirt, tossing it onto the pile of laundry as well (not without noticing that it was a match for the knickers she was wearing).

"All right?" he asked, his voice an octave lower than usual.

Rose licked her lips, a move that could have been calculated to drive him mad, but he knew was merely an expression of her nerves, and nodded.

"Then you should go back to sleep now," Sherlock said quietly, levering himself onto the bed beside her. He put his arms around her and pressed a single, quick and chaste kiss to her lips before laying his head on the pillow beside hers.

Rose looked at him for a long moment, then turned to her side, and adjusted herself so that she was pressed against him fully- her back to his front. She muttered something to herself that Sherlock did not quite catch, and settled back down to sleep.

The only word that he thought he might have caught was "impressive."

~?~?~?~?~

The air was warm and redolent with cut grass and mint when Mickey, Rose and Sherlock appeared on the outskirts of the garden party.

"Shit," Rose said, seeing the people who were there (luckily none were looking in their direction that she could see). She pulled the two men with her behind the TARDIS, knowing that her in-built perception filters (and the greenery in which she was parked) would hide the three of them from wandering eyes.

"So where's the Doctor?" Mickey asked quietly.

"If I were to guess," Rose whispered, "he's at the party."

"Don't see him. Either one of him. Could he have changed again?" Mickey asked.

"Sure he could have," Rose said, though the thought made her heart twist. "And it can't be our first Doctor. He said I was his only companion, and I don't recognize this at all. Besides, can you imagine him at a garden party?"

"Actually..." Mickey began with a grin, but was interrupted by the door on the other side of the TARDIS opening.

Rose peeked out and saw the Doctor (the one in pinstripes) move to lean against the TARDIS as though he were waiting for something. The three who were hiding held their breaths as he stood and paced restlessly for ten minutes before knocking on the door and shouting "we'll be late for cocktails!" at someone inside.

After a moment they heard the door open again, and a West-London accent asked "what do you think? Flapper or slapper?"

The Doctor seemed to wait for a moment and then said, warmly, "flapper. You look lovely."

"No qualifiers for her," Rose muttered darkly, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, but she ignored it.

As the pair walked toward the main part of the party, Rose saw that the companion was the ginger whose form the TARDIS had taken in Pompeii. Donna, she remembered. She wondered, idly, if Donna was before or after Martha, but it didn't matter much.

"Want to see what brought them here?" Mickey asked, the light of adventure in his eye.

"Yeah, all right," Rose said, carelessly. "Looks like, if we stay close to the house, we might be able to see and not be seen. That all right with you, Sherlock?" she asked, turning to the final member of the trio.

Sherlock shrugged, silently, and gestured for them to lead.

They made it to the edge of the house where they could hear the introductions as the vicar was being introduced and a break-in at the church was discussed.

"Typical," Rose heard Donna say. "All the decent men are on the other bus."

"Or Time Lords," the Doctor murmured, sounding slightly offended.

Rose did not miss Donna's eye-roll. So it wasn't like that between them, she thought, then chastised herself internally- it didn't matter because it wasn't "like that" between her and the Doctor either. It hadn't even technically been "like that" when she, Rose, had traveled with him.

"Ah," said the hostess, "here she is, a lady who needs no introduction!"

A middle-aged blonde woman walked over to the party, smiling self-deprecatingly at the attentions she was receiving.

"Oh, no, no. Please don't," she said, modestly. "Thank you, Lady Eddison. Honestly, there's no need." She turned to the Doctor and Donna and extended her hand. "Agatha Christie," she introduced.

"What about her?" Donna asked, while the Doctor looked shocked.

"That's me," she said, with a slight frown.

"Is this typical?" Sherlock asked from their hiding place. "Travel through time and meet famous people?"

Rose and Mickey glanced at each other in surprise. "Well, yeah," Rose said as though this were obvious. "What would you do with a time machine?"

"Catch Jack the Ripper," Sherlock answered without hesitation. He seemed to have given it a lot of thought.

"Same thing then," Rose said, grinning at Mickey. "Just altered because you're a bit of a madman, you know?"

"Think we've figured out what they're doing here," Mickey said quietly. "Is it a good time to talk to them?"

"No... something has to happen here. Something to do with the Doctor. Not sure what, but the TARDIS said not to interfere... well... sort of," Rose said quietly. Sherlock had noticed her with her hand flat to the flaking blue paint of the ship and her eyes closed for a few minutes while the Doctor had waited for his companion. "Also looks like it's a private party, and we don't have an invite."

"We could always get in the same way they did," Mickey said, nodding toward the Doctor and Donna who had used their psychic paper.

"No, too complicated."

"All right then," Mickey said. "Back to Cardiff for another try?"

"Good plan," the other two agreed, and off they went.


	12. The Enemy

**Some of you may not know, but after writing this story, Mickey Smith became pretty much my favourite character ever. **

**There is a word in this chapter that is not a very nice word for a person with dark skin (no, not _that_ word). It is used in proper context, and is historically accurate (to the best of my ability to determine), but that doesn't make it a nice word, so I'm sorry. No offense is meant by this (very) white author for its use.**

**I know that there are people who are triggered by lots of things, and I do try to be conscious of those things when I am able. If a description of a panic attack might cause you a sympathetic reaction, please let me know and I will do my best to provide you with a cleaned-up version of this chapter if you would like it.**

**Frankly, that's something I should let everyone know: if there is something in my stories that upsets you and you think that I should warn people about it, I will NEVER be offended if you let me know. I tend to be able to read anything and not have trouble, so I'm never certain what will cause other people trouble. Unfortunately, that means that I might upset someone with my ignorance, but if you want to help someone else out, please let me know and I'll do my best to warn. Send me a PM, you don't have to comment if you'd prefer not to say anything in a public space.**

**This A/N was never intended to be this long... sorry.**

**Please read and enjoy!**

* * *

"Somewhere near the ocean," Sherlock said when they opened their eyes after transport.

"Brilliant deduction," Mickey said, sarcastically. "Regular Sherlock Holmes, you are."

"Then where are we, Mickey?" Sherlock asked with irritation.

"Erm..." Mickey began, looking around him. "We could ask the TARDIS?"

"What is it with men missing the obvious?" Rose asked. "Believe the two of you have heard of my friend?" She gestured above their heads, and both men looked up at the Statue of Liberty.

"New York!" Mickey whooped. "Always wanted to come here!"

"City so good they named it twice," Rose said with a grin. "Never been here before, not this one, anyway. I've been to New New York, which was actually the fifteenth New York from the original on New Earth in the year five-billion and three when they have cat nuns for nurses and a pretty stunning lack of creativity in naming things."

"Sometimes I think you make these things up," Mickey muttered. "So... when are we?"

"Nineteen-thirty," Sherlock announced from several lengths away.

"How does he know that?" Mickey asked Rose, incredulous.

Sherlock turned to them and held up a copy of the New York Times.

"That's cheating, that is," Mickey said.

Rose rolled her eyes and walked over to join Sherlock. She bumped her shoulder against his upper arm and glanced down at the paper in his hand. November, it said. No wonder it was chilly, but the sun was out, and that helped.

"Look at that," Sherlock murmured, eyes scanning over the paper quickly.

Rose glanced at the headline. "Hooverville Mystery Deepens," she read.

"I know that one!" Mickey cried, sounding surprised and pleased. "Nineteen-thirty means the Great Depression, which means that loads of people are out of work and losing their houses and everything else. They're going to these shanty-towns that're named after the president: Herbert Hoover."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, slightly surprised.

"Haven't you seen _Annie_? There's a whole song about it," Rose said.

"And Rose made me watch that video of hers every day for an entire summer back when we were kids," Mickey said with a grin.

Rose frowned, looking at the paper for a moment. "But... that's basically a town of the disaffected. Disappearances among the homeless... that shouldn't make the front page of the paper, should it?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. She was deducting and it made a small measure of pride warm in his chest. "The only reason it would," he said, schooling his features to neutrality again, "is if there were a large number. It looks like as many as 50 in the last few weeks."

Mickey looked shocked. "How many are in these Hoovervilles?" he asked surprised.

Sherlock looked at Rose for an answer but she only shrugged. "Didn't seem like that many in _Annie_," she admitted.

"You'll get slightly better information about Depression-era United States from The Grapes of Wrath," Sherlock said. "But I haven't read that one since university, so I can't really talk either. There are, I think, several hundred in a Hooverville of the size of the one in Central Park. If I remember, it's one of the largest in the country, though there are actually two here in New York. The population is constantly shifting, however. I think we ought to investigate, the whole thing sounds quite suspicious."

Rose looked hesitant, but Mickey piped up. "Bet you 100 quid that's where the Doctor is. Anywhere there's trouble, you know him."

Rose sighed. "All right, all right. We'll see what we can figure out. To Hooverville," she said, gesturing for the boys to lead. "It's been years since I had to sleep in the park," she muttered as they went.

~?~?~?~?~

It was late afternoon (toward the dinner-hour) when Mickey, Rose and Sherlock arrived in Hooverville and there was a weary listlessness about the population that had an undercurrent of yellow tension as the day faded. They walked along the marked paths between tents, outside of which dirty children sat, harried-looking women tended fires, and exhausted and broken-looking men stared hopelessly. As the three approached the center of the community, it became obvious that these were the people who had been there the longest- the tents were both dirtier and sturdier than the ones on the edges of the park. There were fewer women here, and no children, but the men, though their clothes were more unkempt, had found some measure of confidence again. These were the leaders of the village inside the city.

They were met on the edges of the Hooverville approximation of a village square by a small, grey-haired, bespectacled man.

"Mr. Jeremy," he said in a slightly officious voice, offering his hand first to Rose, then to Mickey, and finally to Sherlock. "Solomon isn't here just now. He's on a job."

"Is Solomon in charge?" Rose asked.

"You're from England!" Mr. Jeremy cried in surprise.

"I am, yeah," Rose said with a small smile. "All three of us. London, actually."

"I went to London once. That was before," he gestured around himself, "all of this. Before the War, in fact."

"Back when you were a clerk for a shipping company, or was this before that?" Sherlock asked.

Both Mickey and Rose turned to glare at him, but he ignored them.

"Do I know you?" Mr. Jeremy asked, squinting at Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock said, haughtily.

"Well then, how do you…" Mr. Jeremy began, but Rose interrupted him.

"Our friend here, he reads way too much pulp fiction, you see. Those detective stories by that Conan Doyle. Considers himself a right Sherlock Holmes, he does." Rose grinned, conspiratorially and leaned in to the American as though sharing a secret. "He's wrong about twice as much as he's right, but even when he's right, don't tell him. It just encourages him." She winked at the man and stood up straight again. "I don't think we introduced ourselves. This is Billy," she indicated Sherlock, "this is Richard," she indicated Mickey, "and I'm Marion. Now, you were telling us about Solomon?"

Rose's babble did its job and Mr. Jeremy was now no longer the least bit interested in Sherlock or the life stories he occasionally pulled apparently from thin air, and was instead just a bit enamored of the pretty, happy blonde girl before him.

"Well, Solomon is as in charge as anyone is but, like I say, he's not here now. Is there something that I can do to help you?" he asked. There was an impression that he would willingly stand on his head to make Rose smile. "You don't seem to have any luggage or effects. Did you leave them somewhere?"

"Er… no," Rose said, glancing at Mickey and Sherlock who were not providing any help. "We tend to travel light. See, we're not really here to stay. I tease Billy here about thinking himself Sherlock Holmes, but in all honesty, we are sort of investigators. We've helped people out a few times. We heard about the people going missing from Hooverville, and we thought we might at least poke our noses in and see if maybe there was something we could do to help."

"Investigators? But the police have said there's nothing they can do."

"We're not with the police," Sherlock spoke up, finally. "We're independent. Call us good Samaritans, if you like."

"I know that you think no one cares about the people here in Hooverville," Rose said, stepping forward and putting her hand on Mr. Jeremy's shoulder, "because you're poor and you've had to leave home. I know the police think you're all deadbeats, but we don't. We really do want to help. So is there anything you can tell us about these disappearances? Or do you know anyone who can?"

Mr. Jeremy looked at her closely, as though gauging her honesty. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him because he gestured them forward and began to lead them to the tent from which he had originally emerged.

Once inside, they found it cluttered with the vestiges of another life. There was furniture that had obviously once lived in Mr. Jeremy's home. A lovely carved rocking chair with needlepoint cushions, an armoire of aged oak and a quilt on the camp cot that looked like it had been lovingly made juxtaposed with a folding chair, a smattering of camping equipment, and the ratty old coat that Mr. Jeremy removed and hung on an antique hatrack by the entrance.

He gestured Rose to the rocker, and took the camp chair for himself, leaving the cot as the only other seating option. Mickey chose to stand, leaning against the armoire, but Sherlock seated himself on the end of the cot and leaned forward to listen to Mr. Jeremy.

"You're the second Brits to show up today asking about those disappearances," Mr. Jeremy said, once they had all settled.

"The ones before, a tall, thin man with wild hair in a brown pinstripe suit?" Rose asked.

"He was wearing a brown coat, but his suit was blue, and he was with a pretty negro girl in red," Mr. Jeremy said.

Both Rose and Mickey, at the same moment cried out, "blue?"

Mr. Jeremy looked surprised by this outburst. "Yes, blue." He glanced at the pair of them. "Does that mean something?"

"No," Rose said quickly. "Just… guess I didn't know he even had a second suit, much less a blue one. Can you tell us where they went?"

"They went into the sewers on Mr. Diagoras' work along with Solomon and Frank. Frank seemed a bit sweet on the girl who was with your friend. He said he was a doctor?"

"Yeah," Rose said with a smile. "He's a Doctor."

"Mr. Diagoras," Sherlock prompted. "Who's that?"

Mr. Jeremy sighed. "Six months ago, he was a foreman on the verge of ending up in Hooverville like the rest of us. Something must have happened though, 'cause now he's in charge of all of the crews on the Empire State Building, and he doesn't worry about ending up here anymore."

Sherlock frowned at Rose who nodded back at him. If the Doctor had been interested enough in Mr. Diagoras (or his assignments) to take his new companion into the sewers, he was of some interest to them as well.

"What about the disappearances? What can you tell us about them?" Rose asked.

"They started about six months ago," Mr. Jeremy said, and Rose, Sherlock and Mickey all perked up at this. The disappearances started around the same time that Mr. Diagoras got his step up? "It wasn't anything you'd notice at first. Just a man here or there disappearing from the outskirts of Hooverville. Now it's hard to tell, see, because it's not like anyone's keeping a register of who's here and who isn't, but there are ways you know- fires left burning, possessions left behind- but nothing you can prove. Then, about three weeks ago, it picked up. Fifty people in the last three weeks, and even the papers are noticing that."

Rose leaned forward to look into Mr. Jeremy's face. He avoided making eye contact, however, and she leaned forward to take his hand. "Have you lost someone, Mr. Jeremy?"

He lifted his eyes to hers for a moment, and then looked away. "His name was Roger," he said softly. "We were… we were friends. We played chess together."

Rose nodded, understanding. "I can't promise you that we'll get Roger back, Mr. Jeremy," Rose said softly, squeezing his hand, "but we will do our very best. Thank you for telling us. You've been very helpful."

~?~?~?~?~

Finding the Empire State Building was easy- even unfinished, it was the tallest building in the world at the time and could be seen from most points in the city.

Getting into the Empire State Building was easier than it should have been thanks to Rose's psychic paper which made the three of them into building inspectors. Though the guards at the door looked askance at Rose and Mickey, they did not actually bar the way.

Sherlock remembered the first time that Rose had ever shown him the psychic paper at Baker Street back in London only a few weeks after the two of them had begun to spend time together regularly. She had pulled it from her pocket, opened it, looked at it for a long moment, and then set it in front of him.

"What does that say?" she'd asked.

"It's a blank piece of paper," he'd answered, arching a brow at her.

"Right, you keep that fact to yourself then," she'd said with a smile, and then she had called John in. "Take a look at this," she'd said, handing the little leather wallet to Sherlock's flatmate. "Sherlock doesn't get it."

John had looked at the paper that was (Sherlock was quite certain) blank and laughed then looked at him will ill-disguised impatience. "It's a joke, Sherlock. Visual humor?" He'd watched Sherlock as the detective had simply stared, impassively, back. "Don't know what you see in him, Rose," he'd said then. "You should find someone with an actual sense of humor."

"Might do," Rose had answered. "You available to run away to Bermuda with me?"

John had blushed and ducked out of the room, laughing.

The item made him uncomfortable in the same way that standing in the TARDIS made him uncomfortable, but on a smaller scale. His observations and his logic at war with each other. Also, it gave him a bit of a headache to look at the paper for too long- as though something were pounding away at the edges of his brain, trying to force him to perceive something that was not true.

Mickey and Rose seemed to have no problems using it, however, and both considered it an indispensable part of their arsenal when they hopped universes. Sherlock couldn't deny that it had come in handy a time or two.

The trio reached the bank of elevators and Rose turned to the two men. "So," she said quietly in case the walls had ears, "probably an alien menace. Up or Down?"

"Mr. Jeremy said the sewers," Sherlock offered. "I vote down."

Mickey nodded at this, and Rose shrugged. "Down it is then." With that, she pressed the button to go down.

As the three descended into the sub-basement, Rose wondered aloud, "is the elevator the proper way to enter this scene, do you suppose? Say we open onto a group of baddies?"

Mickey and Sherlock both withdrew firearms from under their jackets and Rose rolled her eyes. "Can practically taste the testosterone around here. No shooting things."

"Why do we carry guns if we can't shoot things?" Mickey asked.

"Daleks."

"And if these are Daleks?" he continued.

"They aren't. If these were Daleks, they wouldn't be hiding, they'd be rampaging across the world. Remember? Four Daleks, five million Cybermen?"

Mickey shrugged to concede her point.

"But what about what they're doing to the people they're taking?" Sherlock pressed.

"We don't know exactly what they're doing with those people. Everyone gets a chance to do right. That's what the Doctor would do."

"Rose," Mickey said, exasperatedly. "When have aliens stealing humans ever been up to anything but trouble?"

"When they steal them away in a magic blue box to show them the wonders of time and space."

"Nope, still up to trouble," Mickey retorted, and Rose stuck her tongue out at him as the elevator reached the final floor and stopped.

The doors swished open into a scene from a nightmare. Up and down the walls were humans suspended in what appeared to be embryonic sacs. Rose stepped out of the elevator and walked up to one of the cells. The person was hooked up to wires and tubes and did not look alive. She felt like she might throw up from the sight.

"Something's coming," Mickey whispered.

All three of them ducked behind a pillar and watched as the nightmare deepened.

Two Daleks- one bronze and brown and one black rolled into the room.

"DIAGORAS IS COMING. THE FINAL EXPERIMENT WILL BEGIN."

"WE ARE PREPARED, DALEK SEC," the second Dalek responded.

A sense of unreality stole over Rose. Only moments before she had been joking about that day. The day that the Cult of Skaro had ripped her away from her Doctor. The day that she had nearly fallen into the Void. The day that had been worth it- worth all of the pain- because the Daleks had been consigned to Hell.

But they had survived. How could they have survived? Dalek Sec was here, performing experiments on humans including Mr. Diagoras- the man they had come to find.

Rose's stomach rolled and there was a rushing in her ears. She couldn't seem to catch her breath.

Sherlock continued to watch the creatures. He had thought the drawings of the Daleks made them look somewhat foolish, but in their presence they seemed to carry with them an air of menace that he could not explain. They were here, however, apparently at minimal power if Rose and Mickey's assertions that they would not normally spend their time experimenting in basements were accurate. Sherlock couldn't understand it. They were in the 21st century at high enough power to make the stars go out, and yet here they were, only a few years prior in tiny numbers and at minimal power, presumably stuck on Earth.

Sherlock concluded that something must have happened to the Daleks in 1930 to cause them to be able to put out the stars in his own time. But if they were destroyed now, they wouldn't be able to go back and snuff out the stars. But then, if the stars weren't going out, he and Rose and Mickey would not be here to destroy the Daleks. The word Paradox seemed to light his mind, and Rose's voice telling him that, under no circumstances, could they change the past, because it could destroy the universe. Which meant that, loath though he was to admit it, they had to leave.

He turned to share these observations with Mickey and Rose, but found the former fingering his weapon menacingly, and watching the robot creatures with an expression of hatred, and the latter looking like she was going to pass out.

"Mickey," Sherlock hissed, as he put his hands on Rose's face. She was pale, her skin looked like wax. Her eyes were glazed, her pulse elevated, and her breathing was far too fast.

Mickey turned to look, and all of the hatred that had been in his face for the Daleks was turned to fear and concern for Rose.

"We have to get her out of here," Sherlock whispered, nearly silent.

"But the Daleks…" Mickey protested, weakly.

"It'd cause a paradox. Might even collapse the universes. We can't."

Mickey looked one more time at the alien menace, and then nodded. Sherlock found the return button in Rose's pocket and, picking her up bridal style, he pressed the button that would return them to Cardiff and their own universe.

The flash of light did not escape the notice of the Daleks.

"INVESTIGATE," Dalek Sec instructed, but the travelers were long gone.

~?~?~?~?~

When they arrived back in Cardiff, Sherlock set Rose on her feet, where she swayed for a moment before her eyes cleared and she seemed to see them again.

"We're back in Cardiff?" she said weakly.

"Yes," Sherlock said, ready to explain their presence should she ask.

She did not. She turned away from Mickey and Sherlock and ran headlong to their quarters where she threw up everything she'd eaten in the last 24 hours, and collapsed onto her bed, weeping like a child.

* * *

**Post Script: tomorrow's chapter is an NSFW chapter, the whole thing. Skipping it won't lose you any plot that I won't try to recover in the following day's A/N. I know sex isn't everyone's cup of tea, so I'm trying to be sensitive to that.**

**YOU DO NOT HAVE TO READ IT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO- IT WILL NOT HURT MY FEELINGS.**

**Kay? Kay.**


	13. Purge

**This chapter is NSFW for sexual content.**

* * *

Rose hadn't been on her bed for more than about 5 minutes when Sherlock opened the door. He came in, shut it behind himself, scooped her up in his arms again, and sat with her on the bed, resting her head against his shoulder and rocking her gently. They stayed that way for 20 minutes. Rose's weeping went from loud sobbing to quiet tears that poured down her face like rain. Finally, with a shuddering breath, like rain, they ended. She rested her head on his shoulder for another long moment, then finally pulled herself away.

Sherlock allowed his arms to drop so that she could move away if she chose, but she did not. She stayed angled across his lap, hands on his chest, feet up on the bed beside him, looking at him with a strange expression. She had tear tracks dried on her cheeks, makeup smeared under her eyes, her upper lip glistened slightly where her nose had run. Sherlock wanted to cuddle her close and protect her from everything that hurt her, but he knew it wasn't reasonable. Instead, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief and handed it to her silently. She frowned at it for a moment, then plucked it from his hands and cleaned her face before tossing it onto her nightstand and resuming her unreadable look into his eyes.

Suddenly, she was kissing him. Her mouth was a bit wild, hot and wet. Her cheeks were flushed with the intensity of her emotional outpouring and they tasted salty. Her mouth tasted sour with her earlier illness, but it did not remain on his for long. She moved her mouth away from his and began to trace her mobile lips across his jaw, to the place where it joined his neck, and found a sensitive spot that made him shiver there that she chose to scrape her teeth across and suck. She moved to a spot just behind his ear that caused him to squeak in the back of his throat and assaulted that place as well.

"Rose," he said, finally managing to form a word. "Rose, what..."

He was cut off. Her fingertips found his lips and pressed, and then continued to press past his lips, past his teeth, into his mouth where he couldn't seem to stop his tongue caressing them. He sucked her first two fingers deeper, and heard a small noise of satisfaction from her and felt a surge of pride at that.

She removed her fingers from his mouth and rubbed them damply down from his lips, over his throat and to the buttons of his shirt which she began to undo as her lips and teeth found the lobe of his ear and began an attack.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock gasped out as her fingertips trailed over his chest as she continued undoing buttons.

Rose didn't answer, but continued to work his buttons, reaching his stomach and stopping for a moment to explore his navel before continuing her campaign against his shirt.

Sherlock's brilliant mind began to fuzz, but there was one thought that remained. He had to ask. As Rose did something with her tongue against his ear that ought to be illegal, and began to work the closure of his trousers, he finally grated out the last question he thought he would be able to manage for a time. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Rose muttered, breath hot on his ear. She managed to open his trousers and began to stroke his quickly hardening length. "No pants, Sherlock?" she murmured, trailing nips down the side of his neck to the place where his shoulder joined where she applied her lips in earnest, a move which elicited a sound from him that was very much like a growl.

Rose's hands stopped their stroking and began to shove Sherlock's shirt and jacket from his shoulders only to find that the momentum faltered at his wrists.

"Bloody cuffs," she muttered, removing her mouth from his neck. She picked up one hand and kissed his fingertips as she worked the button on his cuff. Once she had it undone, she took the other hand and slid his first two, long fingers into her mouth, stroking her tongue along them and Sherlock groaned. Once his cuffs were undone, she shoved his shirt and jacket all the way off and tossed them onto the floor.

She then slid off his lap to kneel in front of him where he sat on the edge of her bed. The image she made had a groan of appreciation rise in his throat, but he pushed it back. She took him in hand, stroking in earnest now.

"Are you sure?" he grated out again.

She looked up at him, stilling the movement of her hand. Her eyes were bloodshot from her earlier tears, but clear. "Do you want me to stop?" she asked.

"God no," he whispered. Whatever center of his brain might have made it possible for him to lie to her was completely out of commission at this point.

"Then don't ask stupid questions," she said, and took him into her mouth.

Sherlock's vision nearly went black when she did this. Her mouth was hot and her tongue was clever and he had been celibate for a very long time. She was obviously not trying to finish him- her mouth was languid, it was more of a tease- but he would embarrass himself if she did not stop.

"You can't," he gasped. "I can't." He was a bit incoherent, but the exquisite torture of her mouth was removed from him, so she seemed to understand. He opened his eyes and met hers, examining his face. She seemed to comprehend whatever it was that she saw there, and she bent to untie his boots and remove them.

Once the impediment of his shoes and socks were gone, Rose pushed him to lie on his back on the bed and she removed his trousers to toss into the pile of his clothes that she had already removed.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock, as he lay naked and wanting on her bed, that Rose was still fully dressed, even to her blue leather jacket. Then, even as he thought it, she wasn't. She began to strip down, beginning with that jacket. He watched with hungry eyes as she pulled her shirt over her head, tangling her ever-present silver chain, tossing the pendant behind her back and putting the plain white bra that she wore on display. She was not making a display of it- it wasn't a tease, just a utilitarian removal of clothing, but he had never seen anything that so affected him.

She removed her black trousers and stood in white cotton knickers and a bra. She then reached behind herself and unclasped the bra and allowed it to fall to the floor. Sherlock was so caught by the sight of her bare breasts that he hardly noticed as she shimmied out of her knickers, and then she stood before him, a goddess worthy of Botticelli's brush.

She moved to dig in her desk drawer and removed a box of condoms. She opened the box and removed one. She tore into the little package with her teeth and rolled the condom onto him. It was the work of only a moment, but her touch still set him aflame.

Then she settled over him, one leg on each side of his hips, and for the first time Sherlock touched her. He ran his hands up her strong thighs and onto her hips as she adjusted him to fit into her properly.

It was not smooth going. Sherlock realized, suddenly, that the entire build-up had been focused on him. He had not touched her, nor had he spoken but to check whether she were in her right mind. She was not prepared to accept him and, though his body ached, he gripped her hips, trying to stop her. He had not made her ready, he knew. He was no expert in this- practically the virgin his brother accused him of being- but he knew his duty to her.

"Rose, let me…" he began.

"No," she growled, continuing to move against him.

"But I can…" he tried again.

"Hush, Sherlock," she said. She continued to move, and it became easier and easier until, finally, he was seated fully inside of her.

And this was lunacy. This was bliss. Sherlock had thought himself well acquainted with the faces of eternity- madness, guilt, anger, pain, loss, desperation- but this was a new face. Rather than the dark pit, he was falling into golden glory and he knew that this was an abyss into which he could fall forever and never, not once, regret the jump.

But then she began to move, and the knife's edge on which he stood, looking into the beauty, tipped and he fell.

She had taken charge completely, but Sherlock, finally, found himself unwilling to remain idle. His hands skated over her- hips and sides, stomach and breasts. He fondled these last with ardent fingers, finding the places where the textures changed, or the ones that raised goosebumps across her skin.

But soon (too soon, he knew it was too soon) he found himself unable to focus on anything but holding back. She continued to move, but there was not the urgency that he felt sure would be there were she poised on the same razor's edge on which he stood.

"Rose," he gasped. "I can't… you have to… I'm sorry."

She made no response save to move her hand to the place where they were joined. Sherlock watched her hand's movements, determined to learn them and replicate them himself the next time. Though it took herculean effort, he continued to hold back. He had a sense that he had failed in all other ways during this time, he would not allow himself to finish with her unsatisfied. It was unconscionable. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time and was probably no more than a minute her breath hitched. He couldn't hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, but he saw the change in the rise and fall of her chest, and a moment after he felt her internal muscles clench. After another moment, her entire body seemed to tense and she let out a single, quiet "oh" as she came undone.

Her nearly silent orgasm, the look of pleasure on her face, all conspired to send Sherlock over the edge after only a moment more. Awash in a sea of golden glory, he felt Rose collapse atop him, skin slicked with sweat, heart beating out a harsh rhythm against his own.

When he could think again, Sherlock gently rolled Rose off of his chest, disengaged himself from her, and disposed of the condom. By the time he returned, she had turned her back to him and covered herself with a sheet. He inserted himself into the bed behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He could feel her tension and waited for her to speak. He did not wish to initiate the conversation because, brilliant as he was, Sherlock Holmes was at a complete loss for words.

She fell asleep without speaking. Sherlock remained awake, holding her and wondering what would happen when finally she woke.


	14. Learned Behaviours

**For those of you who didn't read yesterday's update because it was marked NSFW (no, I don't know if you exist, but I'm going to pretend that you do) here is my promised explanation of what you missed:**

**Rose and Sherlock had sex (finally) and it was awkward. (Yes, that's pretty much it.)**

**And now for the fallout.**

* * *

When Rose woke to Sherlock's arms around her, her mouth tasting like a sewer and her body aching in the way that meant she'd had good sex, she almost wanted to be sick again. He would have finally managed some aspect of "boyfriendhood" properly when she would rather have had the slightly clueless version she'd been working with for months who would probably have left since his breathing told her that he wasn't asleep.

She really didn't want to have to face him just now. Not after what she'd done. Honestly, months and months of waiting, of sexual frustration and masturbating in the shower (for her, anyway, she had no idea about his shower habits) waiting for the moment when it felt right. When they were finally ready. But instead, she'd jumped him like a randy teenager. And why? Because she was sad. Because she was scared.

She'd used him, and the moment he realized, he was going to be furious. If sex was so important that they needed to wait, why had she jumped him the moment she had been emotionally compromised? And if it was casual enough to do that, why had they been waiting for months? She was either a terrible tease, or a horrible hypocrite, and she wasn't looking forward figuring out which one he decided on.

The worst part was that, despite the timing, despite the fact that she had used him for her own needs (he'd barely responded- he must have been terrified by the mad woman throwing herself at him), she'd been feeling like she was ready for this step for weeks. Ever since she'd left for Cardiff the first time. She had been wanting this, and she'd ruined it.

She had never wanted to ruin it. What was worst was that the previous night had been _good_. Not perfect- he'd been too passive and uncertain, but he'd shown such promise, and she knew he was a quick learner. She wanted to explore this, but she was desperately afraid that she had ruined everything.

"I know you're awake," Sherlock murmured.

Rose couldn't face it and so, taking a leaf from the Doctor's book, she ran.

"Yeah, I'm awake," she said, sitting up, not looking at him. "I need to go take a shower and we should probably get something to eat and then we should jump again. Sorry about the last one. Won't happen again." Over the course of this babble, she'd crawled over Sherlock (touching him as little as possible) and started gathering up some clothes to change into and her showering supplies.

"Rose," Sherlock said, and still she chanced a quick glance at him- she could see the confusion on his face. "Shouldn't we… do you want to talk?"

"No," Rose said brusquely. "What happened was… it was bad… wrong. I'm sorry. I can't talk about it now. I have to… go." With that she threw on her dressing gown and fled the room leaving a confused and hurt Sherlock behind, naked in her bed.

~?~?~?~?~

Mickey watched Rose run out of her room as he stood opening the door to his own room. He could practically feel the tension rolling off of her in waves, and she hadn't noticed him standing there, so something was very wrong. He strolled up to her door, which she'd left open (another symptom of her troubled mind), and found Sherlock sitting on Rose's bed, covered by a sheet at his waist, but obviously naked.

"No need to ask what you two kids got up to then," Mickey said as he wandered into the room and sat himself in Rose's desk chair.

Sherlock looked up in shock and flushed bright scarlet. "I didn't… we didn't… nothing…"

"I'm not going to believe you if you try to tell me that nothing happened," Mickey said, smirking. "Caught you in a bit of a compromising position, yeah?"

Sherlock glanced down at himself and, if anything, flushed deeper. He seemed to concede Mickey's point, however, and wrapped Rose's sheet around himself and got out of her bed to dress. It seemed clear that she would not look kindly on finding him still in her space when she returned.

"Neither of you looks like you just had a good shag," Mickey observed, continuing to watch Sherlock, giving no quarter to the other man's potential desire for privacy. "Something wrong?"

Sherlock pulled his trousers up under the sheet and fastened them. He contemplated just ignoring Mickey, but he actually wanted advice. He had no frame of reference for what had happened in the past two hours, and Mickey seemed as good an ear to turn to as any other, since it seemed John and Rose were both out of his reach.

"I have no idea what happened," Sherlock admitted, pulling his shirt on and buttoning it.

"Well," Mickey said slyly, "when two or more people like each other very much and start cuddling…"

"You're being an arse, you know," Sherlock said conversationally as he tucked his shirttails in.

"Just novel to see the great Sherlock Holmes out of his depth. And over a girl… just seems so… ordinary."

Sherlock winced at the word, but could not argue the point. He sat to pull on his socks and shoes and asked, "are you actually planning on helping or just antagonizing me?"

"'Course I'll help. But that won't stop me antagonizing you. I do have one question though, is Rose all right? That was a pretty major reaction from her in New York."

Mickey watched as Sherlock tensed. Then he seemed to collapse in on himself. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped and he sat on the edge of the bed like a man without hope.

"I don't know," he said quietly.

For the first time since he had known him, Mickey realized that he was facing a Sherlock Holmes who was a normal, uncertain man. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes the super-genius. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes who knew that he could figure out any situation with only a few hours of studying. Here was not the man who could tell where your mother grew up by hearing you pronounce the word 'martyr,' and could determine your father's profession by the way you held your salad fork. Here was, instead, a man who had no idea what was going on in his girlfriend's head, and the fact made him scared and sad and impossibly confused.

"What happened?" Mickey asked, frowning. Rose had learned a hard lesson from her time with the Doctor- not communicating just built resentment and anger. Usually he was impressed with how open she tried to be in her relationship with Sherlock, despite the man's natural reticence.

"I came to check on her, she cried, and then she… we… well…" Sherlock shrugged, still unable to voice what had happened.

"Had sex?" Mickey prompted. He felt no great need to put up with Sherlock's delicacy.

"Yes." Sherlock sounded resigned. "Had sex."

"And it was so dreadful that she ran off?"

"No!" Sherlock said, pride finally making it past his natural reticence to force him to speak out. He met Mickey's eyes and could see that this was exactly what the man had wanted, damn him. Sherlock sighed. He could not deny the insidious voice in the back of his head, however, and Mickey seemed to want to help. "At least, I don't think it was... dreadful."

"Not just about what you think, mate."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm perfectly aware of that, thank you. From what I could tell, she... was not dissatisfied."

"Not exactly singing _Sweet Mystery of Life_ either though," Mickey observed with a smirk.

"Not... what?"

"It's... from a movie that you obviously haven't seen," Mickey said, resigned. "Maybe another time."

"If we're educating Sherlock's movie tastes, it'll _have_ to wait until another time," came Rose's voice from the doorway. Both men turned to look at her, but her face held no indication of whether she had heard their conversation or what was going on in her head. "We need to get at least one more jump in before we call it a night, I think," she continued.

Mickey glanced over at Sherlock who was frowning slightly at Rose. Upon noticing that he was being observed, however, Sherlock's face went carefully blank. Mickey sighed internally. Rose was acting like the Doctor- running away and pretending nothing had happened, and Sherlock was acting like, well, Sherlock- avoiding the emotional implications of everything if he could manage it. Even if it damaged him.

Mickey rolled his eyes at the pair of them. They'd come around, he decided, even if he had to personally drag both of them kicking and screaming. Sherlock made Rose happy, and Rose's happiness was one of Mickey's priorities.

"Are you sure you're all right, Rose?" Mickey asked. "You seemed..."

"I'm always all right," she answered without meeting his eyes. "Come on, time to go." With that, she left the room again."

Mickey frowned after her. Running away? Pretending that something uncomfortable hadn't happened? 'Always alright'? He'd thought she'd learned not to do this, but here she was, falling back on the Doctor's techniques as though she didn't know how damaging they were to a relationship. He'd have to have a chat with her once he could corner her.

But she was right- as she so often was- saving the universe was their first priority.

~?~?~?~?~

The trio had arrayed themselves differently than was typical for this jump. Rather than being a unit, Rose and Sherlock had set themselves on either side of Mickey as though he were a barrier. Mickey had rolled his eyes (neither was as subtle as they might have liked to believe) and allowed them to do it.

They dropped into an alleyway that had the unmistakable look of London at night.

"I know we're tied to Earth," Mickey said, looking around, "but can't the Doctor go to Bermuda or something? Why do we always end up back in London?"

"Pick up milk," Rose said, walking over to the TARDIS and brushing her hand over the weathered wood. "And we went to Pompeii, remember?"

"Great," Mickey muttered. "London or cities consumed by fire. What fun."

"When are we?" Sherlock asked, looking around. "Not modern, I can tell."

Mickey picked up a poster from the muck on the ground. "World War II," he said, looking it over.

Rose and Sherlock made their way over to him to see what he was looking at. It was a poster about rationing- one they had all seen in their own time in history books and in jokes online.

"Right, World War II. London," Rose murmured, glancing around. She suddenly realized that she might recognize this alley. As though to prove the thought, she heard a rustling at the entrance to the street.

"Who's there?" Sherlock called out, and stepped forward.

Rose didn't think, she just grabbed his hand and pulled him behind her to protect him. Then she heard the words that she'd been afraid would come.

"Are you my mummy?"

What appeared to be a small boy in a gas mask stumbled into the alleyway. Rose took a step back and found Sherlock's solid form halting her retreat.

"Are you my mummy?"

Mickey tried to get around Rose. "Are you looking for your mummy?" he asked.

Rose grabbed his arm to stop him moving toward the creature. "Don't touch it. Don't let it near you."

Mickey turned to her and frowned. "That's a child, Rose."

"No, it isn't." Rose looked at what would, in a few hours, be a little boy again, but was, for now, a monster. This was the day that everybody lived, but time could be re-written, she knew, and she could not let that happen. "Just stay back. We have to leave. I'm already here somewhere." She moved to take the return button out of her pocket and was shocked to realize that her fingers were still entwined with Sherlock's. Their eyes met for just a moment before they both looked away and allowed their hands to drop.

"Are you my mummy?"

Rose's attention returned from the peculiarities of her love-life to the dangers at hand. "No," she murmured, looking at the child-shaped creature. "But she's here and you'll be with her soon. Good luck, Jamie."

She pressed the button and they returned to Cardiff in a flash of light.

~?~?~?~?~

"London again?" Mickey asked as they landed.

Rose glanced around at the television aerials and Union Flag bunting. "Was supposed to be New York, actually," she said. "An Elvis concert."

"So this is when the alien was eating people's faces?" Sherlock asked.

"You remember that?" Rose asked, shocked.

Sherlock raised an imperious brow. "I remember everything."

Rose took a step closer to him. "No, you only remember things that you want to remember."

"You said it, so I remember," he answered quietly, voice brooking no argument.

"So you're here somewhere, Rose?" Mickey asked.

"Yeah," Rose said, tearing her eyes away from Sherlock's. She walked to the mouth of the alley and glanced both ways down the road and noticed something. "Actually..." she murmured, frowning.

She was joined by Mickey and Sherlock who looked where she was and saw a blonde girl without a face wearing a bubble-gum pink dress and stumbling down the road toward them.

"That's you, Rose," Mickey whispered. "What's happening?"

"That's just my body," Rose murmured. "I don't remember this, because I'm in the Wire. Everything that makes me... well... _me_ is in the televisions. That's just... empty." They seemed to be coming across a lot of empty creatures today, she thought to herself.

"Where is the Doctor? Shouldn't he be helping you?" Sherlock asked. Seeing her body helpless- her face gone, her normally confident movements reduced to stumbling clumsiness- made him feel just a bit desperate. He knew she was there with him, mind and body together, but the picture before him was terrifying.

"He..." Rose began, thinking. "He's investigating. He's... with the police. I think someone's going to pick me up and take me to the police soon, actually, and that's where he finds me."

They watched the empty body continue to stumble (it seemed to be finding the pink heels it was wearing difficult) for several minutes. Rose's skin crept every time it came closer to them.

"There's no constable coming," Sherlock muttered. "I'm going to find one." With that he was away from them, taking the faceless creature in hand and pulling it out of the little neighborhood and onto the main thoroughfare.

Rose attempted to stop him as he passed, but he was intractable. He continued, without regard for her, and was gone in what seemed like moments. She and Mickey watched him drag the empty creature around the corner.

"Do you think that's okay?" Rose asked.

"You don't remember any of this?" Mickey responded.

"Nothing... that thing isn't me. I'm..." she gestured vaguely at the television aerials, "somewhere in there."

"Then I don't see what the issue could be," Mickey answered.

"He... he wants to protect me, doesn't he?" Rose asked, quietly. "Even if it... isn't really me."

"Yeah," Mickey said, softly. "He does. You mean a lot to a lot of people, Rose."

She continued to stare after Sherlock until he returned. He could not read her expression as he rejoined them, however.

"I found the constable on patrol. She's with him, and he's taking her to the station," he said. "We can go any time now, I suppose."

Rose looked at him for a long moment. "Thank you," she said softly, then dropped her eyes and returned them to Cardiff.

~?~?~?~?~

"London again," Sherlock said before Mickey could.

"Actually, this is just a few blocks from the old estate," Mickey said, looking around with a grin.

"We have to go," Rose said sounding scared.

Both men looked where she was looking and saw the dark-haired, leather-jacket-wearing Doctor and a younger, blonder Rose standing on the sidewalk and another Doctor and Rose hiding behind a building, peeking out at their doppelgangers.

"This is the day my dad died," Rose said, looking at herselves and her Doctors. "I asked him to bring me, and he did, and I made a mistake. This is a weak point in time. We need to go, we can't have three... no, four versions of me here. The universe could break."

Sherlock's hand found Rose's without a conscious order from his brain. When he realized what he had done, he feared that she would shake him off- reject him- but she didn't. If anything, he felt her relax slightly as he laced their fingers together.

After a long moment, she did drop his hand to dig out the return button and get them back to Cardiff.

~?~?~?~?~

The flash of light and electric snap that brought them into the universe was covered by the blue-and-red lights of the police and ambulances in the front of the little town house in whose garden the TARDIS was parked.

Rose touched the door of the ship, but pulled her hand back quickly when she was hit with an electrical zap from the old girl.

"I'm in there," she said softly.

They heard a rustle at the back door and the three of them ducked behind the old blue box before the Doctor came striding out, brown coat billowing, expression haunted. He entered the TARDIS and dematerialized in a moment.

"Where and when are we?" Mickey asked, once the ship was gone.

"I don't know. I have the impression this one happened while I was sleeping," Rose said, softly. "I don't recognize anything here. We should go. Don't want to be caught by the police."


	15. Backward

**I'm pretty young (26), but there is one piece of "wisdom" that I can share:**

**Sometimes people are very stupid about love.**

**That's what I have to say about the last several chapters. Also this one. And the next one. And pretty much the entire story. People can be really very stupid about love.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Upon returning to their universe, they were met with the glowering form of Dr. Rory Stewart. Sherlock had long wondered how a man who looked like a young teenager could strike fear into the hearts of long-time Torchwood agents. He could give Mycroft lessons in quelling glares.

"You three are not allowed to jump for 24 hours," he said, voice brooking no argument.

"What?" Rose cried out. "Why?"

"It's been nearly a month since we last saw you three for more than a few hours sleep and a little bit of food. It's been a week since I've seen you take a break for sleep."

"Honestly, Rory, for us it's really only been a few hours since the last time we rested."

"Rested? Last time I saw you take rest, Rose, it was less than two hours and only because you'd had a panic attack first."

Rose rounded angrily on Mickey. "You told him I had a panic attack?"

Mickey did not back down from her hot anger. "Yeah, I did. 'Cause he's your doctor and he needed to know. People care about you, Rose, and they want you to be okay."

"Who says I'm not okay?"

"Your doctor," Rory said simply. "You're off for 24 hours, and if these weren't desperate times, it'd be longer."

Rose looked at Rory's stubborn expression and Mickey's raised eyebrow. She turned to the last person in the room who might be on her side, but found Sherlock's face carefully locked down and expressionless and knew she would have no assistance from that quarter.

She felt hot tears behind her eyes and was shocked to see that her hands were shaking. An objective voice in the back of her mind (that, once, had spoken with a brusque Northern accent and now spoke with a sharp public-school accent) told her that for her to have so little control over her responses she was more tired than she thought. She was still angry. She wanted to throw things and scream and run away and cry into the arms of the man who was looking at her without expression and whose voice echoed in her mind that these were manifestations of her exhaustion as well.

"Fine," Rose said, voice clear, clipped, and emotionless. "Twenty-four hours grounded. That's fine. I'm going to for a run."

"I'll join you," Mickey said.

"I don't want you to join me," Rose answered, nastily.

"Pity it's a public track then," Mickey said with a smile before he grabbed her elbow and steered her from the room.

Rose expected Mickey to start berating her as soon as he had her away from Rory and Sherlock, but he didn't. He remained silent while they both changed into running gear. He was silent while they laced on their shoes. He even allowed her to turn on her music and start without a word. He kept pace with her through the entire run- remaining at her left elbow despite the absolutely brutal pace she put them through. She wanted to punish him and, if she were honest with herself, she wanted to punish herself as well.

For thirty minutes, the pair of them ran like the hounds of hell were following them. Rose's muscles and lungs burned and her head swam, but still she pushed herself to go faster. When, finally, she found that she couldn't go any farther, she stopped and felt Mickey stop beside her. They both bent double, breathing hard. They were both sweating and gasping and could not speak.

After a few minutes, Mickey managed to catch his breath enough to gasp out, "you ready to talk yet?"

"You're giving me a choice?" Rose choked out, not bothering to look at him.

"You could keep running," Mickey suggested. "S'what the Doctor would do."

He saw her tense for a moment and knew that his barb had struck. He waited for a long moment, and then watched her collapse in on herself, much like he'd seen Sherlock do earlier. She dropped to the ground, pulled her knees to her chest, and rested her forehead on them, making herself as small as possible.

"I don't know what to do, Mickey," she said softly. "I can't be him, no matter how hard I try, but he's the one we need."

Mickey sat beside her and slung an arm over her shoulders. "To defeat the Daleks? Yeah, it's the Doctor that we need. But to find the Doctor? To keep everyone's spirits up? To remind us why the universe is worth saving? For that we need Rose Tyler. But you've said it yourself, babe, the Doctor don't do it alone. He needs a hand to hold and so do you."

Rose sniffled. "I have you."

Mickey smiled a bit and nodded. "Yeah. You'll always have me, babe, but it's not my hand you want to hold and you know it."

"God, Mickey," Rose sighed. Now she just sounded broken, exhausted and sad. "I think I've ruined everything."

"I doubt it somehow, but tell me about it and we'll see if maybe I can see a light at the end of the tunnel for you."

The old friends fell into a routine of stretching to help loosen the muscles they had pushed to the limit with their run as they talked.

"We had sex," she said simply, not knowing where else to begin.

"And it was so horrible you can't look at him now?" Mickey asked, smirking.

"Don't be a prat. No, it was good."

"Good?"

Rose rolled her eyes. "It was very good. With some practice it could probably be spectacular, but… well, it was our first time."

Mickey's eyebrows shot up. That was a piece of information that Sherlock hadn't given him. "You two have been moon-eyed over each other for the better part of a year," Mickey said in shock, "and you're telling me that you haven't…"

Rose turned and gave him a long, steady look. Mickey considered how long Rose and the Doctor had danced around each other and, suddenly, most of a year didn't seem so long after all.

"I was trying to wait until it was… meaningful. Until it was… healthy. Until we loved each other, I guess," she admitted.

"And do you?" Here was a question that Mickey was deeply interested in.

"Do I what?"

He glared at her. They both knew she was being deliberately obtuse.

Rose sighed. "Yeah, I think I do. I'm pretty sure but…"

"But there's the Doctor," Mickey finished for her.

"Yeah," Rose sighed. "When he's locked away in another universe it's easy. He's gone and I'm never going to see him again. And Sherlock's here and he's not going to hold his distance from me because I'm human. He's difficult in a lot of ways- sometimes even more than the Doctor ever was- but we're equals in a way the Doctor and I never were, you know?"

"But now?"

"But now we're going looking for the Doctor and… what's going to happen when I see him again?"

"Are you still in love with the Doctor?"

"Three months ago, I could have told you no without a doubt. I love him. I'll always love him. But that all-consuming madness that I had for him when I was 19? No. I'm not running away from a dead-end life anymore. But I can't deny that it's hard to be as certain now after seeing him again, even from a distance. It was a better life, remember?"

Mickey smiled a bit. She was right, it'd been a better life.

"So… I don't know. I love Sherlock and I want to be with him, but I think I've ruined it all. I put off sex for ages 'cause I wanted it to be meaningful, but then the second I'm scared and sad I jump him like a mad woman to make myself feel better. He's got to hate me."

Mickey shook his head. "I can promise you this, babe, and I don't think it's breaching Sherlock's privacy to say it: he doesn't hate you. You'll need to talk to him though. You remember what it's like to have someone pretend that things didn't happen, or to run away when they do."

Rose sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Have I ruined everything, Mickey?"

"If he's half as smart as he thinks he is, and you're half as smart as I think you are, you'll apologize, he'll accept, and the two of you will shag like bunnies."

"You're a romantic sod," Rose said conversationally. No need to mention the feeling of hope that was welling up around her heard at his words.

"'Swhy you love me, babe," Mickey said with a smile. "First though, you're going to take a shower, have a bit of a sleep, and make yourself pretty so you've got the confidence to face him, yeah?"

Rose shook her head. "You know me way too well."

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock's door swooshed open to reveal Mickey, standing on the other side smirking.

"What is the point of having one of the highest-security locks available if everyone already has the code?"

"Helps you sleep at night," Mickey said, smile deepening. "You look like you could use a cup of tea."

"Do I? I feel like I could use a large whiskey," Sherlock answered coldly.

"Maybe another time. Come on, you need some distraction." Mickey grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him up off his bed, then bullied him out of the room and into the kitchen.

"Is this usually how things get done around Torchwood?" Sherlock asked, irritably. "Just shove people around until they do what you want?"

"Usually, yeah." Mickey shoved the older man into a chair, still grinning. He handed Sherlock a cup of tea, then picked up his own and sat at the table and gave the detective a look over the top of his mug.

"So you and Rose are sleeping together now."

Sherlock snorted into his tea. "Are you her father now? Is her delicate virtue in danger from my degenerate ways? Are you going to ask what my intentions toward her are?"

"Not her dad, no. I'm far more dangerous than Pete, if you want the truth. I happen to know that Rose initiated any degenerate behavior, so you're in the clear there. That last one though… not a bad question, that. What are your intentions toward her?"

Sherlock had blushed as Mickey had frankly announced that he knew the circumstances of his and Rose's… activities, but the final question made him roll his eyes again.

"I have none. She's not interested in my company any longer. That seems fairly obvious."

"And Sherlock Holmes would never miss the obvious," Mickey said with a smirk. Sherlock did not appear to be listening to him, however. After another moment, Mickey spoke again. "Want a game of Cluedo?"

"What?"

"Cluedo? Waddington's game? Solve the murder by figuring out what cards the other players do and don't have? Don't tell me you've never played."

"Of course I've played," Sherlock snapped.

"Okay, good," Mickey said airily, ignoring the other man's rudeness. "So, do you want to play?"

"Why?"

"Something to do, I suppose," Mickey said with a shrug. "Been awhile since you last solved a murder. We could do poker instead, if you'd rather. I'd offer a game of footie, but Rose ran me ragged earlier, so I'd rather not. I don't play chess, but I could probably kick your arse in a game of checkers. Or I might be able to dig out an old Playstation and we could play a video game. Not sure what we have around though."

"I… what?"

"I think Cluedo though," Mickey said, decisively, and turned to pull the game from the top of the refrigerator where he'd stashed it.

As Mickey set out the game board and started to deal the cards, he spoke again. "What if she wasn't though?"

Sherlock glanced over his cards, but did not speak.

"What if she wasn't done with you? What if, instead, she was exhausted, and scared, and taking the weight of the universe on her shoulders, and facing down horrors? What if, just possibly, she took her pain and fear out on you? She shouldn't have done it, but what if she did? Then what are your intentions toward her?"

Sherlock frowned at the cards in his hand as Mickey slipped the last three cards into the envelope and set it in the center of the board.

"Stay with her as long as she'll have me, I suppose," Sherlock muttered.

Mickey nodded. "Good. You should play Professor Plum."

~?~?~?~?~

Rose followed the sounds of masculine laughter to the kitchen. She leaned on the doorjamb and watched Mickey and Sherlock acting like children with a fond smile on her face.

"John won't play this with me anymore 'cause he says it isn't actually possible for the victim to have committed the crime."

"But it's the only thing that makes sense. Nobody else has a motive!"

"That's what I told him, but he says that it's not in the game's rules to look for a motive."

"Seems like it's the game that's wrong then. Should be able to change the rules if they don't make sense. Rose and I used to do that when we were kids, right babes?"

Sherlock turned to look at her so fast that Rose half expected him to get whiplash.

"Sure did, when you weren't trying to teach me to keep goals for you when you played footie," Rose said with a smile. "Any tea left?"

"Nah, you'll have to make your own," Mickey said as he began to clean up the game board.

"We weren't done with that game," Sherlock said, looking confused.

"Sure we were, weren't you paying attention? Mr. Body did it."

"I thought the butler did it," Rose commented idly as she filled the kettle.

"Only in the movie," Mickey answered.

"What movie?" Sherlock asked.

Mickey heaved a huge, dramatic sigh. "Rose, what do you see in him? He hasn't seen _Young Frankenstein_, he hasn't seen _Clue._"

"Not everyone in the universe is quite as fond of American cult comedies as you are, sweetheart. Also, have you even checked whether those movies exist over here?"

"They've got to!" Mickey cried. "Best movies in the multiverse."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Six years, you haven't been bothered, and suddenly they're the best movies in the multiverse?"

"Never know what you've got 'till it's gone," Mickey said wisely.

"Or what you don't have. Either of you want another cup of tea?"

"Nope, gonna go find out if those movies exist. I'll just... go do that."

"Very subtle, darling," Rose murmured to him as he bounced off, grinning. "What about you, Sherlock, cup of tea?" She turned to look at him, and found him missing. Oh his body was there, seated stiffly in the same chair where, minutes ago, he had been joking and teasing with Mickey, but now he was gone from behind his eyes and he looked past her as though he didn't see her.

Rose sighed. She set an unasked-for cup of sweet tea in front of Sherlock, and sat with her own across from him. She stared into the depths of her mug, trying to come up with words that might break his shields and convince him to listen to her, but she could come up with nothing clever. Nothing more than the obvious.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Her stomach was tied in knots as she waited for him to respond. It wasn't all she wanted to say, not by a long road, but she wanted him to be there when she spoke. She wanted him to be listening.

After a long, tense moment, she saw his eyes soften a bit and she could have cried in relief. He was there, even if barely, and he would listen.

"Does that make this the traditional 'I'm sorry' cuppa?" he asked. It wasn't quite humor, but there was a breath of warmth in the question.

Rose felt one side of her mouth lift. "S'ppose so."

"And do you know what you're apologizing for?"

Rose sighed. She didn't really know what he wanted her to say. Sometimes she could read Sherlock like a book, no matter how mysterious he fancied himself, but other times she couldn't quite figure him out, like she was looking at him sideways but trying to see him dead-on. Complete honesty was her only option.

"There are a lot of things I'm sorry for," she said, quietly, looking into her tea. "And a lot fewer things that I'm not sorry for at all." She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry that I ran away this morning. That's the most important thing. I'm sorry I ran and didn't talk to you. I'm sorry I made you think…" she paused, not quite ready to go there yet. "I'm most sorry about that. I know what it's like to have someone run away from you and I can't believe how cruel I was to do it to you."

Rose still couldn't read Sherlock's expression, but she could tell that he was focusing on her with every fibre of his being. It was clear that he would not interrupt, so she continued.

"I'm sorry I used you last night. I'm sorry I've made such a big deal about… about sex and then just let everything go because I was scared and sad and… and everything. That wasn't fair to you at all. I've been there too, and… god I'm so sorry I did that to you." She sighed and took another drink from her teacup. "I do actually believe that… it should be special and important and… what I did last night was wrong, but I'm not…" Rose stopped and shook her head. She wanted to finish apologizing before she got into that.

"I'm sorry I pretended that nothing had happened all day today. I'm sorry I tried to pretend nothing had changed. That was stupid. I'm sorry if I scared you last night. I'm sorry I've been so impossible to work with lately. I'm sorry I panicked yesterday in New York. I'm sorry…"

She was cut off by Sherlock's finger over her lips. She looked up and met his fathomless eyes. His expression was still inscrutable.

"Maybe it would be simpler if you told me what you are not sorry for, and we can assume that everything else is an apology. Seems we might be here all night otherwise," he said softly.

Rose nodded against his finger. She was bolstered by the fact that he had chosen to touch her so intimately and it gave her strength to say what she had to say. She had no idea how he would feel about this, but she could not leave him wondering.

Sherlock's hand dropped to the table, and Rose took a deep breath. Even before she spoke, she felt a blush rising on her cheeks.

"I'm not sorry, not even a tiny bit, that we did… what we did last night. I wish it had been born of affection and… all those romantic notions, but… last night I was scared and there was only one person in the universe that I wanted when I was scared and sad and hurting, and it was you and… I can't apologize for that. I'd never have slept if you hadn't been there… or if I did, I'd have dreamed of Daleks. And I shouldn't have… pushed you… like I did, but I'm not sorry about that either. Because I've wanted to for… well… ages. It wasn't romantic or… anything but it was… it was good. Really good."

_Sherlock's mind whirled- his relationship with Rose had long been one where he had apologized, and she had accepted. Her need to apologize to him was novel._

_He had been afraid that she would apologize for what had happened in her room the previous night- that she regretted it and that she would tell him to go. This last, however, sent his mind spinning away from the moment._

_She did not regret it. Did not regret sleeping with him. Did not regret turning to him for comfort. _

Rose took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock again. His face was still inscrutable, as though she were a clue that he could not quite work out. She sat still, waiting for him to speak, but still he sat like a statue, not even blinking. Rose's heart thudded in her ears and she felt like she couldn't quite get a full breath of air- as though her lungs were being constricted, and still Sherlock did not speak.

_He would dance as soon as his limbs unlocked. _

_He would sing as soon as his throat loosened. _

_He would tell her a thousand times that he forgave her as soon as his jaw unclenched. _

_He would make love to her a dozen times as soon as his heart started beating again. _

_She was staring at him._

Finally, Rose could stand it no longer. "I think… I think it's your turn to say something, Sherlock," she choked out. "Really, anything will do."

Sherlock blinked and, suddenly, his pale face became animated again. "Yes," he said simply, as though it answered anything.

Rose blinked. "Yes? Yes what?"

Sherlock frowned for a moment, going over all that had been said. "Yes… I forgive you?"

"Are you… posing that as a question?" she asked, and Sherlock could hear tension mounting ever higher in her voice.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before saying "no" quite carefully to be sure that there was no question in his inflection. "It just occurs to me that there were no questions asked that would elicit a 'yes' for an answer, but that was what I said."

"Right," Rose said, slightly breathlessly. "Okay… but… you forgive me?"

"Yes," he said, voice low and quiet.

Rose swallowed. "And… you and me, we're… we're good?"

"Rose Tyler," Sherlock said, voice like midnight velvet, "I think that, with practice, we could be much better than 'good.'"

Something frozen and constricting in Rose's chest melted in the heat of Sherlock's eyes. For the first time, she could feel a smile on the edges of her mouth.

"And that's something you're interested in? Practicing?" she asked, catching her tongue on the edges of her teeth with that last word. She saw his eyes go dark as he focused on her mouth, and where her stomach had been full of ice before, now it was filled with golden warmth.

"Yes."


	16. The Poet

**Wholockgal and I have named this the greatest case of literary 'coitus interuptus' ever. We're fairly pleased with it.**

**I have, since I started this series, had people ask me about how Sherlock would react to the case of Jimmy Stone... I present it to you now.**

**I hope you enjoy. Please read and review and tell me how I did!**

* * *

Sherlock smiled.

By that time, Rose had long-since learned that Sherlock was not a man who smiled easily, though he was not as cold as most people thought. Four times out of five, when his lips stretched into a smile, it was forced- a manipulation or a lie. Four times out of five, when he smiled, it never touched his lips- it was a sparkle in his eyes, a few subtle lines at the corners, and his mouth remained immobile.

Sometimes though, most often when he was with John or Rose, Sherlock Holmes would smile. His perfectly bowed lips would curl upward, his bright eyes would soften and sparkle and tension dropped from his face making him look like a beautiful little boy- full of mischief and hope.

This smile, however, was new- a smile Rose had never seen before. No little boy's mischief here, this one had hunger and darkness and something just a little bit feral behind it rather than Sherlock's usual careful control. It was a conqueror's smile- not coming to steal what he wanted, but knowing that what he wanted was his already, he had only to claim it. It was blatantly sensual in a way that Rose had never known Sherlock to be, but had long suspected that he was capable of.

Sherlock rose and prowled like a panther around the edge of the table to where Rose sat. As he moved, she could not take her eyes from him- like the opposite of a perception filter, she could not have ignored him if she had tried. When he stood over her, his smile increased in intensity by a degree (Rose thought, idly, that if Jack Harkness had ever managed a smile quite like that, she might never have resisted his many attempts to share her bed), and he extended a hand to her.

Rose looked at that long-fingered hand for a moment. Sherlock's offer of a hand to hold was minutely different from the Doctor's. Where the Doctor had always infused this gesture with his normal mania and almost child-like glee, Sherlock made it formal, even old-fashioned. She looked into his eyes and saw that his smile had dimmed. Tension and uncertainty had taken the place of hunger and heat with her hesitation, and it made Rose's heart weep. She smiled at him- a smile that she had learned through long experience that he was hard-pressed not to return. She watched his eyes zero in on the tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth and tension fell away again. She placed her hand into his and he pulled her up from her chair to bring her knuckles to his lips where he placed a gentle, very nearly chaste kiss across them. Rose's breath caught and she was transported to another time and another place- Devon, nearly a year prior when a man who did not apologize had apologized to her and had kissed the back of her hand with an earnest and curious look in his eyes and everything had begun. Now, in addition to the same earnestness and curiosity, there was familiarity and some storm of emotions to which Rose could not (or would not) put words.

Sherlock bent his head toward her ear and whispered "Rose Tyler" in a voice like aural whiskey. He leaned back and smirked into her eyes when she shivered.

Rose schooled her face carefully and raised an eyebrow in a move extremely reminiscent of the man before her. "Mr. Holmes," she said, primly, "are you trying to flirt with me?"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled, though he, too, kept his face neutral. "No," he said quietly, drawing a fingertip up Rose's arm and across her shoulder, resting it lightly on the back of her neck, under her hair and applying just the faintest of pressures to convince her to step forward into his space. He bent his head so that his lips were barely a whisper from hers. "What I am trying to do is seduce you. Is it working?"

He could feel her smile in the space between their lips. "Might could use some… practice," she said softly.

"Cheeky," Sherlock growled before finally closing the distance between their two mouths.

For Sherlock, a kiss tasting of tea would always taste of forgiveness. There had been several flavours over the months. It had been a rose and lavender blend the time he and Mycroft had gotten into a shouting match at one of her mother's parties. It was a traditional Earl Grey when he had failed to buy Mrs. Hudson flowers for her birthday, despite Rose having told him to do so several times. There'd been an orange flavoured tea when he'd failed to come to Jackie's birthday party despite it having been rescheduled for him twice. There had been endless cups of the strong black blend that Mrs. Hudson kept stocked that had been used to apologize for spilling chemicals on her favourite jeans or forgetting to pick up dinner when she'd asked, or using the "for food only" cookware she had designated for one of his experiments. There had been a beautifully delicate green tea that he had been keeping while he investigated the theft of some Japanese artefacts from a collection that had led to him being shot in the course of the investigation. She had come to the hospital, tear-tracks on her face to find him grousing at the doctor who had been stitching his arm. He'd made her tea because she cried and had apologized for her doing so. She had called him daft for thinking he had to apologize for that and had kissed him and told him she wouldn't have chosen a man with a safe profession anyway. There had been several cups of a winter blend at Christmas, however, when Rose, Jackie and Pete had asked him to take Tony for an afternoon while they prepared Father Christmas' gifts, and Sherlock had taken the child to the handgun range. Rose had told him it was completely inappropriate, and the look of disappointment, even after she had agreed to forgive him and had kissed him- mouth tasting of cinnamon and clove- caused him to throw out the entire canister of tea. It had never tasted right after.

The tea they had shared on this day was nothing special- Fortnum & Mason bagged Darjeeling- but the flavour of forgiveness was still on his tongue as it stroked alongside Rose's and she melted against him. He brought their joined hand up to his chest, as though they were dancing, and buried the other in her silken hair.

A loud cough from the door to the kitchen made Rose and Sherlock jump away from each other, though their hands stayed entwined.

Mickey, Ian, Melody, Rory and Sarah stood in the doorway grinning and, in Melody's case, giggling.

"Soooo," Mickey began, still grinning like a loon, "found out those movies exist in this universe and Ian owns them."

"Brilliant," Rose said, acidly. "Fantastic. Molto bene. Do explain why you're telling us at _precisely_ this moment?"

Mickey's smile didn't dim in the face of Rose's irritation. If anything it became brighter. "Well, the five of us thought we might set up one of the conference rooms to watch them. You know, order some pizzas, have a few beers. And we thought we'd invite the pair of you to socialize. Social and emotional health is just as important as physical health, right?"

Rose glared at him. "As much as I appreciate your myriad concerns for my well-being, I think I'll pass on movies and pizza. Tired, you know? Long day." She made to move past the group in the doorway, tugging Sherlock behind her by his hand.

Rory cleared his throat to catch Rose's attention. "Have you eaten, Rose? Or you, Sherlock?"

"No, they haven't," Mickey answered before Rose could.

"Well then, as your doctor, I must insist that you eat some food before engaging in any further... strenuous activities," Rory said, giving Rose and Sherlock's clasped hands a raised-eyebrow and a knowing smirk.

"You're not serious," Rose groaned, and Sherlock blushed.

"Dead serious," Rory said, grin belying his words. "Can't be too careful with your health. Now, Sherlock can go help Mickey and Ian with the setup. I'll help you girls choose the pizza."

Rose turned quickly to Sherlock. "I'm so sorry about this," she rushed out. "I'll try to…"

"No you won't," Mickey cut her off, pulling Sherlock away from her and toward the largest conference room.

"I will get you for this, Mickey Smith, don't you think I won't," Rose threatened as Mickey continued to pull Sherlock away. Mickey sent her a wicked grin over Sherlock's shoulder and the pair of them disappeared into the room. Rose turned to the girls and Rory with another glare. "Explain," she growled.

Sarah slid her arm through Rose's and led her back into the break room as she spoke, allowing Rory and Melody to follow. "A pair of gorgeous creatures like the two of you and you don't think we're going to be curious?"

Rose groaned. "What makes you think I'm going to kiss and tell?"

"Sweetie, you don't need to actually say anything, you never have," Melody laughed. "Your face will tell us everything we need or want to know."

"Gods," Rose groaned, dropping into a chair and covering her face with her hands. After a moment she looked up again and found Rory still grinning at her. "And what's your interest in all of this?" she practically growled.

"As your doctor…" he grinned when Rose scoffed at these words that he seemed willing to use to excuse any breach of her privacy or wishes, "it is my duty to be certain that you're being safe and keeping healthy. And also to inform you that if you get knocked up, there's no crossing the void, end of the universe or no. Someone else'll have to do it. I have a selection of prophylactics in my office, you're welcome to come pick them up at any time."

Rose dropped her head to the table and murmured dire imprecations about her friends as they stood over her laughing.

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock was not faring much better.

"… All I'm saying is…" Mickey continued and Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. In no way was this '_all_' that the man had said on the subject. He'd been chattering for 10 minutes, and Sherlock had filtered approximately 85% of what he'd said.

"If you knock her up, end of the universe or not, Jackie Tyler is going to find a way to make the rest of your life, and whatever afterlife might be waiting for you, into a hell."

For the first time, Sherlock was fully paying attention. "I'm not… We're not… It's not like…"

"Don't tell us that 'you're not,'" Ian said, shooting a sceptical look over his shoulder from where he was sorting through a mess of wires to hook up the DVD player. "No one believes that for a second. Just tell us you're being safe."

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock bit out.

"Cleverest man in England, smartest sentient being in the known universe, doesn't matter," Mickey philosophized. "Get your dick involved in your thinking and all that goes out the window. You leave your friends behind on a spaceship in the 51st century, or you forget to wrap up."

"Are those two things really comparable?" Sherlock asked.

Suddenly, both Ian and Mickey were glaring daggers at Sherlock, and he felt his fight or flight responses kick in. Sometimes, when they were sitting around playing Cluedo or arguing over pizza toppings, it was easy to forget that these were dangerous men, but just now, as their smiles fell away and their bodies subtly moved into defensive postures, he remembered that they were trained to fight and, if necessary, to kill.

"The comparison is some bastard treating his wants as more important than Rose Tyler's heart, health, or happiness," Mickey said softly, and there was a hint of a feral growl in his voice that Sherlock had never heard there.

Sherlock frowned. He knew the story of the 51st century spaceship, but the other wasn't a story he'd heard before.

"Whatever the Doctor did to her, I will not make his mistakes," Sherlock said in a certain, even arrogant voice. "But they never… she said that the two of them didn't…"

"They didn't," Mickey said shortly. "That was someone else- someone who never deserved what Rose Tyler is. The Doctor made mistakes, but Jimmy Stone was a mistake. Rose's mistake, but really, he was a mistake of a human being."

Sherlock frowned. Mickey was not usually so unforgiving of anyone. He was a good man, a gentle man, and usually could find the good in anyone, but in this moment some person in Rose's past made Mickey so angry that he could find nothing positive.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked.

Mickey shook his head. "That's her story to tell, not mine. But know this: I've helped her pick up the pieces before. The first time I was a kid, barely smart enough to know my ass from a hole in the ground. The second time, the person who broke her was on the other side of the void. This time, I'm cleverer than I was, I'm more dangerous than I was, and you haven't got all of time and the multiverse to hide in. Got that?"

Normally, Sherlock would have rankled at the idea of someone telling him what to do- at being threatened. Normally, Sherlock would have met Mickey's threats with threats of his own or some sarcastic comment about Mickey taking on more than he could handle with Sherlock. Normally, Sherlock would have told Mickey to butt-out of things that did not concern him.

However, he knew that if someone were threatening John, Sherlock would have been in Mickey's position. He would not have feared for John's sexual safety, but he could understand that Mickey had known Rose all her life and his love for her was nearly paternal where Sherlock's relationship with John was more philial.

In addition was the mere fact that it was Rose Tyler about whom they were talking. Nothing was 'normal' about Sherlock's relationship with Rose. Not for him. What he felt and wanted in regards to her were concepts nearly as surreal as time and space travel, aliens, and parallel universes. There was a time that Sherlock would have dismissed all of them as madness, love included, but to deny the evidence of all of his senses and all of his instincts would be foolish and, whatever else he might be called, Sherlock Holmes was not a foolish man.

So, when confronted with Mickey Smith's threats, Sherlock found that he could not respond normally. He had to open some piece of himself (call it his heart) and offer it to Mickey as collateral.

"I will keep her safe, as much as I am able," he said softly.

"May find that that's not much," Ian said, having turned back to his work with the wires. "She's never happy but she's in danger, you know?"

"Jeopardy friendly, that's her," Mickey said, with a smile- the threat gone from his face now and the jovial man back in place. "Just make her happy," he said, more seriously, to Sherlock. "Sometimes that's going to mean letting her get herself into tight spots, but don't let her get hurt if you can help it, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, with a nod.

Apparently happy with this, Mickey began to instruct him in some aspect of the DVD setup, and some minutes later Rose, Melody, Rory and Sarah had joined them with beers and sodas and noisy talk about pizza, and, despite the potential destruction of the universe, despite the life-altering realizations being made, despite the fact that no one on the room could feasibly be called normal or domestic, normalcy and domesticity descended.

~?~?~?~?~

Four hours later, Rose was curled up in Sherlock's lap, head on his shoulder, Melody was stretched out, feet in Sarah's lap, head in Ian's, Mickey was on his stomach on the floor, and Rory was sprawled in a chair asleep. The team had raided every room in the Hub for comfortable furniture and there was an odd assortment including several leather computer chairs, a small couch stolen from an executive suite, and a number of pillows and blankets from Rose's room. They'd lain all over each other like puppies and shifted several times over the course of the food, two movies, and long arguments about which ending of _Clue_ was the best. Sherlock would not normally have allowed Rose in his lap in public, but he had found that his reservations had been pulled down over the course of the time with the Torchwood team and the casual intimacies that they all seemed to share.

Sherlock could tell from Rose's stillness and the way she was breathing that, though she wasn't quite asleep, she nearly was. As Teri Garr sang in the credits of _Young Frankenstein_ and the rest of the team started to shift, Sherlock gently nudged her back into wakefulness with some regret.

Rose stood from where she had been curled and stretched luxuriantly. She looked around and caught sight of Rory. "Looks like the kids have nodded off," she said with a fond smile, then glanced at her watch. "It's late, team. I'm off to sleep, personally. The rest of you degenerates don't have to go home or anything, but do try to be quiet, won't you?"

"Back at you," Ian said with a waggle of his eyebrows at Rose and Sherlock.

Sherlock blushed and Rose rolled her eyes, unable to hide the small smile on her lips. She decided there was no pretending with her friends, so she grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him from the room. Mickey, Sarah, Ian and Melody let out a cheer as they left that woke Rory up, and his voice- huskier than his usual childish tones from sleep- could be heard saying "don't do anything I wouldn't do," which raised a chorus of laughter and agreement from everyone else.

Sherlock glanced at Rose to see that her cheeks were flushed light pink, and had a distinct feeling that his own were so bright red they might be emitting light in the dim Hub.

"Like living in a frat house," Rose muttered, tugging Sherlock's hand toward their cells.

Sherlock had no answer for this, and suspected that she had not intended for him to give one. He allowed himself to be led to the point right in the middle of their two rooms. They were no closer to one door or the other when Rose stopped and turned and looked at him.

"Erm," she said, looking away from him and biting her lower lip, "which... which room do you prefer?"

For some reason, Sherlock felt like this was an important decision that she was asking him to make. He could not pinpoint why, but it seemed like there was some weight in the question that he could not read.

Sherlock considered the two rooms- his, nearly empty, with nothing but his laptop, clothes and second-best violin (his Stradivarius was still with Mycroft, but his brother had sent down the instrument which had lived in their parents' house since Sherlock had moved out at 15), hers, papered in stars and with feminine bits and bobs, sketches, figurines, papers, and photos on all surfaces. Her room shared a wall with Mickey's, and his practical and private instincts told him to use his own room, but something niggled at some higher interest. There was permanence to Rose's room- she had been in it much longer than he had been in his. His room was a temporary place, one that he could use for the time being, but held no part of himself. It would be safer to use his room- no accidental revelations, no expectations, no requirements. He was about to suggest this to Rose when his eyes caught hers and he realized something important- something he had been aware of but not observed until that moment. He would normally have expected to chafe at the restrictions and expectations that were placed upon him by being "in a relationship" but he did not- even having his privacy compromised by Rose's friends and coworkers seemed more like a friendly nuisance than an actual invasion. His room might be safer, more private, less intimate, but when it came to Rose Tyler, Sherlock realized that he wanted intimacy, he wanted to allow her into his inner life, and he was willing to endanger himself because, miracle of miracles, he trusted her. He could accept permanence if it was with her.

Sherlock did not have the words to express this, and thought that even trying to do so would cheapen the moment, so instead he simply turned to the lock pad on her door, entered the code, and allowed her to precede him into her room. She did not speak, did not question his decision, and did not comment on what it meant, but he had a feeling that she understood. It was one of the most wonderful things about Rose Tyler- she always seemed to understand the things for which Sherlock had no words.

Rose pressed the button to close the heavy, secure doors behind them and turned to look at Sherlock. She did not step toward him- the last time, she had been aggressor. She had taken what she wanted and given little enough back, though he had not seemed to mind. Now she wanted an equal partnership and for that she wanted to be sure that he was ready.

The tension and uncertainty between them could have been cut with a knife, and Sherlock mourned the ease that had been there before the interruption of their friends. Only a few hours before, the pair of them had been on the edge of taking this leap- ready and willing and so very in sync with each other that it would have been a glorious consummation- a dive into bliss. Now, with several hours among friends to temper their desire and allow their rational minds to return to the forefront, they were faced with the logistical and psychological implications of the decisions they were making- not instinctual, but deliberate. Sherlock was pleased that his mind was returned to him from that place of lust-fogged thoughtlessness, but with reason came concerns and fear.

Sherlock knew with all of his mind that he wanted this with Rose. Though Mycroft's voice, which had always spoken from the back of his mind, continued to claim that emotions would cloud his judgement and warp his observations, for the first time in his life, Sherlock had a more powerful voice in his mind- it was sweet and cockney, it bubbled with laughter and it affirmed him rather than denying him and Sherlock could not refuse it.

He reached forward to take Rose's hand and pull her into his arms. She stepped forward easily to slide her arm around his waist and settle her head against his shoulder. Sherlock wrapped an arm around her shoulders and, as he had before, he put their linked hands over his heart. The two of them stood like this for a long moment, just breathing together.

She smelled of peroxide and makeup and her own perfume and pizza and sweet soda. He smelled of tea and paper and beer and lightly of her perfume. He had noticed, back in London, that, light as her scent was, it permeated his clothes when he held her and spent time with her. It was as though she had marked him like a wolf. When she had left for Cardiff the first time, he began to notice it dissipate from his clothes, from his flat, and even from her flat until he had only one jacket that still smelled of orange blossoms and jasmine, and he had refused to have it laundered, wanting to keep the scent for as long as possible. It was nothing he would have told any other human being in the world, but he wanted her close, even when she was not.

Sherlock swayed with Rose in his arms, almost like dancing, and he stroked his free hand over her hair and down her back, using the width of his hand in the small of her back to press her ever closer to him. He heard her sigh, a soft, happy sound that he associated with lazy kisses on rainy Saturdays in London and days where he did not feel twitchy despite having nothing pressing to do. It was a sound which spoke to something inside of him that was peaceful and calm and so very rarely touched and he sighed as well.

All too soon, however, Sherlock's mind latched onto a mystery that was still to be solved. Though he tried to push the impulse down and continue to enjoy the warm weight of pink and yellow in his arms, it would not be quieted and so, with a heavy sigh, Sherlock moved away from Rose by an inch or two so he could look her in the eyes.

"Rose," he said softly, when blue eyes met brown, "who is Jimmy Stone?"

The slightly sleepy smile she'd been wearing fell away in an instant. "Who told you…" she began, and then cut off. "Mickey, of course," she murmured. "What did he tell you?"

She moved as if to get out of his arms, but Sherlock held her in place. "He didn't tell me much, just that he'd put his own wants ahead of you, and that you considered your relationship with him a mistake. I believe his exact words were that the Doctor had _made_ mistakes, but Jimmy Stone _was_ a mistake."

Rose smiled tightly. "Guess that's a good way to put it. Ah well, probably should have told you this story ages ago, just never seemed important. Let's sit." She led the way over to her desk and directed him toward the bed, fingers still interlaced from their embrace. Sherlock kept her hand in his, not wanting to completely lose the intimacy of the previous moments.

"This is the sort of conversation that usually requires tea," Rose said, offhandedly, then sighed heavily. "You know how I left school at 16, right after my GCSEs, yeah?" She didn't wait for him to nod before continuing. "Well, Jimmy's the reason I left. He was in a band, see, and as soon as they made it big, we were going to get off the Estate, out of London… we were going to see the world." She sighed again, and smiled without humour. "I always wanted something besides smog-choked skies and government-subsidized flats," she said, slightly bitterly. "Mum used to say it was me 'putting on airs and graces,' but by god, I wanted more than a one-bedroom flat, and a husband and a squalling little brat, and I did try to find a way out. Ended up going to the ends of the universe to get away from it. Selfish of me, I suppose, but there you have it."

"And Jimmy?" Sherlock asked to bring her back on track.

"Right, Jimmy," Rose said, nodding and shaking her head as though to dispel a fog. "Well, he was my first ticket out- I was working at the chippy down the road from my flat at the time. He talked me into moving in with him. Mum liked him, at least at first, though she weren't too happy when he talked me into dropping out of school. He'd ask me for money to cover his half of the rent, and then, before I knew it, I was paying all of the rent. I had to get a second job to cover it, so I was working days at the chippy and nights serving at the pub. But it was all right, you know? 'Cause it weren't gonna be forever."

Rose shrugged and continued. "So there's six months of that. I haven't seen any of my friends in all that time 'cause I'm either working or too exhausted at the end of the day to go out. They never come to the pub I'm working at- found out later that Jimmy told them that I didn't want them coming in and embarrassing me. I haven't been to one of Jimmy's shows in that time either. He tells me I'm too tired to enjoy it, and he don't want his girlfriend there if she's only there out of obligation. 'Sides, he's the frontman of a band, he should be sexy and mysterious, not have his chavvy girlfriend hanging off his arm all the time."

Sherlock could feel the hot swell of anger rising up inside him. For this… _boy_ to tell Rose that she wasn't wanted, to manipulate her friends into leaving her alone, to call her names and undermine her fragile teenager's ego… it made him want to find this Jimmy Stone and show him that big talk does not a big man make. Instead, he tightened his grip on Rose's hand in silent support as she continued.

"So, 'round that time I get a bit of a nasty fever, and I start feeling sick and… well… I go to the doctor and find out I've got the Clap. Well… only one bloke I've been sleeping with. Only one bloke I've ever slept with, come to that. I was on the pill so I didn't make him wrap up, 'cause I thought… well, I assumed that he wasn't going to run around on me. Stupid to assume, I guess."

Suddenly, before Sherlock's eyes, Rose was no longer 27, clever, confident, and powerful. She was 16, naïve, starry-eyed, and so, so young. He leaned forward, catching her eyes.

"For any man to break faith with you," he said in a quiet, hoarse voice, "he would have to be a fool of the first order. To risk someone's health like that, whether the girls he was with or the girl who apparently kept him in his flat single-handed, he was a grade-A_ bastard_."

Rose smiled slightly and nodded. "I talked to one of my friends, Shareen, that day. I'd taken off work, see, to go to the doctor's, so I had some time. Got to see her for the first time in ages, yeah? That's when she told me about not being able to come to the pub. And that it was apparently common knowledge that Jimmy was seeing three other girls besides me. And that he hadn't played a show since I'd moved in with him. All news to me. I confronted him with all of it that night. Got a black eye for my trouble." Rose laughed humourlessly again. "It was the impetus I needed to get out of it though, so I guess I should thank the abusive, philandering bastard."

"You'll forgive me if I don't," Sherlock said, drily.

"Prefer it that way, actually," Rose said with a wan smile. "So now you know my shame- manipulated and abused by some twenty-year-old idiot who ended up picking my pocket on the way out the door as well."

Sherlock tugged the hand that was still enclosed in his own so that she moved off her chair and toward him, ending up in his lap where he finally released her hand to pull her close and murmur, lips against her hair, "he saw a beautiful girl with stars in her eyes, and he wanted them for himself. He very nearly put them out, but he couldn't because Rose Tyler doesn't die like a candle flame, she burns like the sun."

"Who knew?" He heard her mumble against the skin of his neck.

"Mmm?"

"You're quite the poet, Mr. Holmes."

He smiled. "You haven't seen anything yet, Rose Tyler."

* * *

A/N: Tomorrow's chapter will be NSFW for sexual content again


	17. Undone

**This chapter is NSFW for sexual content.**

**Many people mentioned in the last NSFW chapter that it wasn't terribly "fanfiction-y" sex, it was a bit too real and awkward for typical fanfiction fare. This is much more like what you usually get, though there's some awkward and goofy bits here as well. **

**This is some of the very first smut I've ever written, so let me know where I went wrong!**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Rose smiled against the soft skin of Sherlock's neck and moved to nuzzle the spot behind his ear that had made him growl the previous day. She felt him shudder under her and grinned, mouth still on his skin so he could feel it.

"It occurs to me," Sherlock began, voice low but controlled as though he were giving a lecture, "that our initial experiments were poorly implemented, which lead to misunderstandings and, potentially, dissatisfaction with the results."

"I don't remember being dissatisfied, were you?" Rose asked moving her head to look him in the eye again.

"No," Sherlock admitted, "but I hypothesize that we have barely scratched the surface of what we are capable of. I would, therefore, suggest that we employ the scientific method to ensure that we don't miss anything."

"And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?" Rose asked, eyes sparkling but face neutral.

Sherlock could tell from the tone of her voice that she was laughing at him, but that was fine. He had intended for her to do so.

"The steps of the scientific process, simplified, are observe, hypothesize, test, analyse, conclude, repeat."

"Well, repeat sounds promising, anyway," Rose murmured. "All right then, Professor, what are your observations." Her eyes were lit with challenge as she smirked at him.

"You see, Ms. Tyler," Sherlock began as he shifted her weight to be able to hold her in place with only one arm and free one of his hands for demonstration, "I observe that you shiver when I speak close to your ear, I hypothesize that your ears may be a sensitive point- an erogenous zone, as it were." As he spoke, Sherlock moved his mouth closer to Rose's ear so that his lips just barely did not brush the sensitive outer shell. "Particularly when I say certain things, isn't that right, Rose Tyler?" He then pulled back and began to, gently, stroke the soft skin below her ear with a single, callused fingertip. He watched her eyes drift shut and smirked. "I run a few tests, the pressure of breath, the pressure of a fingertip and…" he moved forward swiftly and pressed his mouth to the spot his finger had been teasing moments before. He opened his lips just slightly, and allowed the tip of his tongue to touch that soft, sensitive skin. He then created a very slight suction and, finally, Rose let out a squeak of surprise and reaction, and he knew that he had found what he sought.

He pulled his mouth away and looked down at Rose then. Her eyes fluttered open and were glassy as she looked at his smug smile. "A successful experiment, I think," he said.

Rose blinked, clearing the fog from her eyes, and met his smirk with a raised eyebrow. "Does a successful experiment require repetition, or will you move on to a new observation now?"

"Statistical rigour demands a repeated experiments, but a proven theory also raises new questions and hypotheses to test. For instance," and Sherlock leaned into her again, brushing his lips against her jaw as he continued to speak, "are both of your ears as sensitive? Is one more so than the other? What other places will make you shiver? And the most important question of all- can I find all of them in one night?"

Rose grinned and glanced at the clock. "We're grounded for another 18 hours. How many theories do you think you can prove in that time, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have 24..." Sherlock glanced over her for a moment, "twenty-seven hypotheses I'd like to test. And, if one leads to another, as they do, we may need more than just eighteen hours."

_We may need the rest of our lives,_ Sherlock thought, but did not say.

"Incentive to save the universe, eh?" Rose said with a smile.

_Unless you stay with the Doctor and leave me behind_, Sherlock thought.

"Knew there was a reason we were putting in all this effort," he said, lightly.

"Mmm," Rose murmured, as one of her hands drifted to the top button of his shirt. "Saving the universe for sex. Doesn't sound terribly noble, does it?" she asked as she undid the button and began to draw fingertips over his clavicles.

"Probably best not to advertise that as the inspiration," Sherlock agreed absently. He considered their position and determined that it was not optimal. Helping her balance across his lap gave him limited access to her, as one hand had to remain braced on her back. He determined that the best position for what he had in mind had Rose laid out on her back on her bed.

"Reminds me a bit of the Time Agency, actually- saving the world (or worlds) for a shag," Rose said, unbuttoning another of the buttons on his shirt and blithely unaware of Sherlock's thoughts until she found herself lifted and deposited onto her bed in an instant with Sherlock hovering over her.

"Blimey," she said, eyes wide.

Sherlock grinned at her- a baring of his teeth that was triumphant and wolfish. It seemed, now, that talk of science and theory was finished, and it was time to… _practice_. She could not help but answer his wolf's smile.

Sherlock stood and began to remove his boots and socks, and Rose moved to follow suit.

"Stop," Sherlock ordered in a voice that brooked no arguments. Rose raised a single eyebrow at him, but consented to lay back down until he was ready to explain himself. When his shoes were off, Sherlock sat at Rose's feet and began to unlace her boots for her. "I took no part in this last time," he said, softly, eyes and fingers intent on his work. "I want to do it this time."

"Got something to prove?"

Sherlock pulled off her shoes and glanced up at her, haughty expression in place. "Yes," he said, simply. "I am a show off, and I can think of little as worth showing off over as this."

Rose chuckled quietly as he removed her socks, but it quickly turned into a moan of pleasure as he pressed his thumbs into her instep to ease the muscles there.

"Sensitive feet, Ms. Tyler?" Sherlock asked with amusement in his voice.

"Mmmm," she sighed, incapable of greater articulation.

Sherlock felt a surge of fiercely masculine pride at her incoherence. He switched his hands to her other foot and revelled in the soft, happy noise she made in the back of her throat. He might have remained for hours- revelling in the feel of her skin under his hands while listening to her low sighs and feeling her muscles relax as he went, but he caught the sensitive skin of her instep with one roughly callused fingertip and she suddenly jerked her foot from his hand. He looked up and grinned, having forgotten that her feet were ticklish.

"Not that I mind this, but didn't you have some theories to test, Sherlock?"

Rose watched the hunger that had waned slightly light again in Sherlock's bright eyes. He moved his hands from her feet to her ankles. He allowed his hands to stray as far up her legs as her trim trousers would allow him- about halfway up her calves.

"It might be easier for me to test my theories if you weren't wearing these," he said, removing his hands from the bottom of her trousers and reaching up to undo the clasps.

"I suppose I have to allow that you need to set your laboratory to optimal conditions," Rose responded with a grin that had her tongue tucked into the corner of it.

"Naturally," Sherlock said, primly. This time, as he removed her trousers, he did not stop his fingers stroking over her warm, golden skin. Every time he found a spot that made her gasp or shiver, he lingered and filed the information away in another room of his mind palace- a room with a rosewood door.

When finally he had tugged her jeans off and tossed them onto the floor, he looked at her, observing her for a long moment. Her skin was soft and pale and he catalogued every freckle, dimple and scar for his own information. She was not a goddess- not the woman he imagined in feverish dreams, but a fascinating, beautiful, flawed human. For some reason, the idea made his lips turn up at the corners and lit fire through his veins.

"What do you observe, then, Sherlock Holmes?" she asked in a low, husky voice.

"I observe," he said, sitting back down on the bed, and beginning to stroke her legs, "that you are a runner. Sprints rather than distance, though I think you capable of distance if necessary, you are more inclined to speed." He trailed his fingers from her ankles up her calves, then brushed his fingertips over the back of her knees. This action made her shiver, and it made him smile.

"I observe," he continued, carefully regulating his voice as he skated his hands over the top of her knees and then slid them slowly, carefully onto her lower thighs, "that you have been scratched or cut no less than five times on your legs, twice by straight-bladed weapons, once by a serrated blade, and twice by claws of some sort. All of the wounds have healed, and all have scarred."

He continued to skate his large hands up her smooth thighs, thumbs on the inside coming closer and closer to her centre. He felt her still as his hands approached.

"I observe," he said as one finger brushed over the crotch of her knickers in the lightest of touches which caused her to jump all the same, "that you have a more extravagant and frivolous taste in undergarments than in ordinary clothes. You know that lace knickers with sparkles serve no purpose and are more likely to fall apart than plain cotton, don't you?"

"Are you complaining?" Rose asked, and Sherlock was pleased to note that her voice was just slightly breathless. "I could go change if it would make you happier."

Sherlock laid his palm across her lower abdomen to keep her in place. "Observing," he corrected, pedantically, looking into her darkened eyes.

"I observe," he began again, once she had stilled, "that you have a cluster of five freckles here," he brushed a fingertip over the spot that was just above the waistband of her low-rise knickers and just below the hem of her shirt, "that, if connected, would not quite make a star." He bent close and pressed his lip to that constellation on her abdomen, and then brushed his tongue over each mark, the salt flavour of her skin a catalyst to the boiling of his blood.

That close, he could smell her, that thrilling combination of sweat and spice and pheromones and sex. He wanted to taste, and he wanted to savour, but first he wanted to see so he moved away, sat back, and smiled at her, pleased at her glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.

He found the hem of her shirt and worked it up over her abdomen, finding places that made her catch her breath with his fingers and cataloguing every aspect of her- milky skin, fine hairs, freckles, moles, scars, flaws and marks. He could have described her in scrupulous detail from memory- mnemonic photographs stored behind that rosewood door- and yet he was sure that he would never become bored. The shift of her muscles beneath her skin as she squirmed beneath his touch was of endless fascination. The way her stomach jumped just slightly when he brushed her too gently and it tickled. The well of her navel could hold him captive for ages and he did not deny himself or her the pleasure of tasting it now.

He found himself growing tired of his own game of denial, however, as he inched her shirt higher and higher. He wanted to move forward to the sweet conclusion that awaited them both, and yet he felt duty-bound to prove to both himself and her that he was capable of this- of taking his time and raising her to the highest peaks before allowing her to crash into ecstasy.

The allure of her breasts was becoming overwhelming, however, and when his fingertips finally found the bottom of her bra, his impatience took hold and he tugged the shirt up over her head in a go rather than inch by inch as he had been. He saw her smug smile when her face was again visible- tousle-haired and tongue-touched, knowing what he had wanted.

He was distracted, however, by the revelation of the chain that she was wearing- the chain that she always wore. He drew his fingertips down the length of it to where the pendant rested against her sternum. There was the key to his own Baker Street flat, which normally hung alongside the key to the Doctor's TARDIS which currently guided the Dimension Cannon. Instead, taking the place of the key was a small, blue-and-green pendant, set inside of a small circle with a pearl on the outside- the Earth and moon pendant that he had given her for her last birthday.

He brushed his fingertips over those two items, overcome, unable to speak.

"I carry home with me wherever, Sherlock," she said softly, and he looked up into her eyes. There was still desire there, but it was tempered by understanding and something that he might have, were he a braver man, called love.

He could have told her that wherever she was- the Medusa Cascade or the Rose Nebula or the one-bedroom flat that she maintained a mile and a half from his Baker Street rooms- was his home as well. It was why he was following her to the other universe. It was why he was allowing the spiders to scurry- because she was his home and he had to see her safe. He did not tell her this, however. Coward, every time.

He was undone. For the first time that night, he bent to her mouth and it was the death of patience and slowness. He devoured her. Lips, teeth, tongue, he sought every place in her mouth that made her moan, squeak, shiver and sigh and he played her with the same skill and passion with which he played his Stradivarius and the music she made was sweeter than any he had ever produced from the violin.

His fingers, no longer skating and memorizing, now had a purpose. He rolled her so that he could reach her back to unclasp her bra and was met with nothing but a continuous expanse of fabric.

Against his mouth, Rose let out a small laugh, and pulled away slightly, though the arm he kept around her waist prevented her going far.

"Front-clasp," she said with a puckish smile. She reached a hand forward, and he grabbed her wrist and pressed her back onto the mattress, hand above her head.

Once he was convinced that she would not move, Sherlock returned to the task of ridding her of her bra. He found the clasp in the valley between her breasts and examined it for a moment with an endearing frown of concentration on his face before his long, supple fingers opened the little device with what might have seemed a practised flick had Rose not known better. She watched his face as he pushed aside the cups of her bra and was rewarded with a widening of his eyes, a flaring of his nostrils and a baring of his teeth.

He met her eyes then, the blue of his nearly subsumed with black now. "You, Rose Tyler, are absolutely beautiful," he said in that low, soft voice that sent shivers down her back.

He lowered his mouth to her breast, tasting the milk-pale skin, smooth as velvet before succumbing to the temptation of the pink, pebbled tip and the change of texture on his tongue, the quickening of Rose's breath, the sweet, needy noises that she made as he tasted and tormented her. He brought his left hand to her un-tended breast and kneaded, stroked, circled and, finally, pinched the sensitive nipple, eliciting a moan from Rose that made him grin.

Rose's hand slid into his dark curls to hold him in place on her breast- short, blunt fingernails raked across his scalp and made him shudder. She held him in place and, when he did something particularly satisfactory, she would curl her fingers into his hair to tug and the pleasure-pain of that seemed to shoot straight through him to his groin. Her other hand drifted down from above her head where he'd placed it to stroke over the shell of his ear, down the column of his throat and to the slight gap under his collar, brushing her fingers as far as she could get.

She tugged at his hair, unhappy to end the blissful torture he was enacting upon her person, but she needed his attention. When finally Sherlock looked up, blue eyes wide and slightly glassy, Rose grinned at him.

"You have me at a disadvantage," she said, and was shocked at the husky, sensual quality of her voice. She cleared her throat and continued. "I think it's time for you to kit off as well, Sherlock Holmes."

He narrowed his eyes at her, not interested in interrupting their shared pleasure with the minutiae of undressing, but she wriggled beneath him insistently, finally managing to get out from under him and sit up, and she looked expectant.

Sherlock gave a heavy sigh and sat up as well only to find Rose Tyler straddling his hips. Rose Tyler, who was clad in nothing but pink lace knickers. Rose Tyler, who was now attacking the buttons of his shirt, leaving his hands free to roam over her as she took care of the "undressing" bit for him. Rose Tyler, whose skin was warm and flushed and satin-soft. Rose Tyler, who he was learning made the loveliest noises when he scraped his teeth over sensitive skin. Rose Tyler, who smelled of orange blossoms and leather, and who tasted of soap and salt and home. Rose Tyler, whose miraculous fingers were dancing over every bit of skin that she uncovered and was managing to elicit a few choice noises from him as well. Rose Tyler, who was managing to amplify those noises by pressing lips and tongue and gentle teeth to any point she found that made him moan.

Rose Tyler, who had finished with his shirt and had shifted deliberately back from where she had been wriggling against his ever-more-obvious erection so that she could attack the fastenings of his trousers, even as his shirt stayed on, if open.

"You know they say that patience is a virtue," he grated out as one of her hands stroked him, even as the other worked away at the button of his trousers.

"Never been terribly virtuous, me," she murmured, distractedly. She reached into his trousers to hold him out of the way (since he didn't wear pants) and her hand on him in even this most utilitarian way nearly caused his eyes to roll back and for him to embarrass himself right there.

After the previous night, Sherlock thought he should be under much tighter control, and yet here he was, ready to come in her hand at the barest touch. What had Rose Tyler done to him?

And then, not bothering to try to remove his trousers, she slid off his lap and was kneeling before him, and her breath on his cock and he wanted her to take him in her mouth as much as he wanted to continue breathing, and yet he did not want it like this- not this time when he wanted to prove to himself and to her what he was capable of. He wanted her moaning and squirming, not him.

"No," he managed, just before she closed her lips over him, and the look in her eyes was shock and hurt. "Not now… not… I can't," he rushed to explain. "I want… come here."

She rose from her position before him, standing as he sat, and her stomach was even with his face. He rested his cheek there for a moment, breathing in the smell of orange blossoms and arousal.

"I want," he said, turning his face into her so that her abdomen muffled the words that he both did and did not want to say, "I want to touch you everywhere and taste you everywhere and feel you everywhere. I want… everything."

Rose put her hands on his cheeks and applied gentle pressure to tip his head back- to look up at her. "Begin at the beginning, Alice."

Sherlock smirked up at her then. "I started at your toes, Hatter," he said, pushing her around by the hips so that the backs of her legs were against the bed, then he stood so he looked down at her. "Then I made it to right about here," he continued, drawing his hands up her side to cover her breasts. He marvelled for an instant at how they fit in his hands, the pebbled nipples providing an exciting friction against his palms. "I missed something on the journey, I think," he continued, trailing his hands back to her hips and pushing her to sit on the bed. She complied and he went to his knees in front of her, mimicking her position from before.

He looked into her eyes- looking up at her as he so rarely did. It was an unusual position for him to take- vulnerable and submissive, but there and then, with her beautiful and nearly naked, looking down at him with desire and affection in her eyes, with his clothes loosened around him and nearly falling off, he found himself willing to worship on his knees at the altar of her pleasure.

Sherlock gave in to his desires and slid the scrap of fuchsia lace that was the last barrier that she wore off her hips and over her legs. He removed his own clothes without ceremony, knowing that it would make her happy, but more interested in the visual delights of her naked form than his own, but as he bent to kneel before her again, she stopped him.

"Wait," she said softly, and he stilled. She ran her eyes over him, intimate and powerful as a physical caress. Sherlock held himself still under her gaze and allowed her to look her fill, unable to stop a blush as her eyes took him in frankly and rested for a long (endless) moment on his cock.

When her eyes slowly returned to his, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "All right?"

"More than," she said, huskily, and Sherlock felt himself grow even harder at the tone.

He resumed his kneeling position in front of her and found that he was, again, overwhelmed. She was all pink skin and brown, curling hair, and the smell of sex and arousal was everywhere. He glanced up, meeting her golden eyes for a moment, and then he began exploring.

His clever fingers catalogued every inch of her with a touch. He stroked and massaged with his fingertips, finding every place that made her breathing hitch or made her moan. He found the centre of her arousal quickly, that lovely cluster of nerves given only to women for pure pleasure, some quirk of the universe that Sherlock felt no inclination to argue.

He learned her. He was as studious and through as ever he was in a chemical experiment and he devoted the same facet of his personality which caused him to obsess until he could solve a case to the problem of causing Rose Tyler to shatter at his hand.

He slid his fingers to her opening, gathering up the slippery wetness there without penetrating (that was for a later moment). He slid his fingers over her again, glossy and slick with her wanting. He applied himself in earnest to her clitoris and found what she liked as he set forward to try hypothesis after hypothesis until, with a hitch in her breath and the slight tensing of muscles in her abdomen, he felt certain that he had found what he sought. He then applied himself to her with concentrated effort and, after only a moment, she was keening a long, sweet cry.

Without a pause, Sherlock slid his fingers inside of her, his way smoothed by her own body. He smiled, comparing it to the last time he'd been inside of her like this. He found a rhythm that she liked, if the shifting of her hips and the endless litany of his name (which, he determined, was his new favourite song) was any indication. He swept his thumb over her and curled his fingers forward in a way that he had read would yield positive results. She cried a sudden "yes" and Sherlock was pleased with his research.

He leaned forward and, for the first time, he applied his tongue to her. She was sweetness and salt and heady perfume and the change in the pitch of her moans was his only guide here, where he could not see her. He listened carefully and found a series of swirls and taps on her clit with his tongue gave him the sweetest symphony.

When she came the second time, he could feel the clench of her muscles around his fingers, and he revelled in the sensation. Her body was a masterwork of form and function and he was in awe of it.

He moved away so that he could see her again, gently pulling his fingers from her heat and joining her on the bed where she continued to lay, chest-heaving and face flushed, her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks.

She squirmed up to rest her head on the pillows, and Sherlock stretched out beside her, not touching, waiting for her to indicate that she was ready. She scooted over to him and buried her face in his shoulder for a moment. He wrapped her up in his arms and, for a long moment they lay like that, comfortable, naked, and quiet. Sherlock's erection still strained, but he enjoyed the tension for a moment as Rose caught her breath.

After a long minute, she looked up at him through her lashes, her tongue peeking out from the grin she was sending him.

"Pretty impressive," she said.

"Pretty?" He raised a single eyebrow.

"All right, a bit more than pretty impressive. Where'd you learn all that?"

Sherlock looked away, slightly ashamed, but he could not lie to her. "Well... call it a series of educated guesses. I... I'll get better."

"How very promising," she purred.

With that comment, Sherlock's control snapped. In a moment she was pressed back into the mattress with the long, slim length of him pressed to her from the bottom of his ribcage to the tops of their thighs. He had settled naturally into the cradle between her legs, the tip of his erection brushing the damp curls there.

"Are you ready, Rose Tyler?" he asked throatily.

"I am," was her breathless reply, "but you're not."

"No?"

"Not dressed for the occasion," she said with a sly smile.

"Damn," Sherlock expulsed, then scrabbled in the drawer at her bedside for one of the condoms he knew was there. He sat back on his heels while he dealt with what was necessary and then, in a moment he was pinning her to the bed again.

"Now are you ready?" he asked, the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh yes," she said, and the last word became a moan as he sank into her.

After that there was no more talk, it was the push-pull of hips, and short breathy cries and expletives and endearments and finally, when Sherlock though he could take no more, he reached his fingers down and found her again and sent her tipping over the edge with his name on her tongue. After a moment, he followed her down, her name on his.


	18. Time Holds Its Breath

**Quick recap of yesterday for my non-NSFW readers:**

**Rose and Sherlock had sex again, and it went much better. Sherlock probably talks too much, but that's okay, Rose likes that about him.**

**Rose's necklace has the Baker Street key and the pendant that Sherlock gave her with the Earth and moon, and she told Sherlock that she carried her home with her wherever she goes.**

**Sherlock really wants to tell Rose he loves her, but he still hasn't.**

**No one is 100% sure what Rose is thinking, mostly because I'm evil.**

**So yeah, we're back from the land of smut and back into the land of adventure. Please enjoy!**

* * *

Rose woke slowly. She could tell that she had been asleep much longer than was her wont these days, and when she cracked one eye at the alarm clock on her nightstand, it had been nearly six hours since she could remember shutting her eyes. Rory would, she knew, prefer eight, but six was quite a lot for her and she felt refreshed.

After a few moments, greater awareness came to her and she was reminded why she had been tired enough to sleep for so long. The reason (and cause of a few deliciously sore muscles) was tucked close behind her, thumb of one hand mindlessly caressing the underside of her breast in such a way that Rose could not decide whether he was awake or asleep. She was ready to be awake, however, so she gently disentangled herself from his arms, hoping not to wake him if he were not. As she tried to move away, however, his arms tightened around her and pulled her to him again. He kissed the back of her neck in a way that he had discovered the previous night made her shiver. The hand that had been stroking her breast suddenly found more specific purpose, and Rose was forced to laugh.

"You're incorrigible," she said, more forcefully disentangling herself from his arms and getting out of bed before he could pull her back.

"Highly motivated and focused," Sherlock corrected, sitting up.

"Well right now, _I'm_ 'highly motivated and focused' on having a bath." Rose glanced over at him as she pulled on her dressing gown and started to laugh. "Don't pout, it doesn't become you."

"I am most certainly not pouting."

Rose sent him a sunny grin as she gathered her things to shower and left the room. She was considerate enough to close the door behind herself so no one could peek in on Sherlock in dishabille. She didn't know who was left in the Hub as it was early morning, but knowing her crew they might have stayed the night watching movies and pretending that the universe was not ending.

All throughout the previous night it had been the unspoken rule that no one mentioned the Doctor, the Daleks, the stars or the end of the universe. They had pretended that everything was good, and Rose understood. The Doctor had always done that- tell jokes in the face of the horrific, stop for a hug in the middle of a battlefield, (almost) dance while bombs fell and people died. It was a way of finding a centre, a calm in the storm, and Rose felt better for having done it, and she knew her team would as well.

It was time to resume the fight, however, and there was an air of girding her loins as Rose scrubbed under the plentiful hot water in the barracks shower.

When she returned to her room it was to find Sherlock sitting at her desk in flannel trousers and no shirt, with her laptop open, frowning at the password screen, two cups of tea steaming beside him.

"I can't figure out your password," he said without looking up as she took a sip from a cup and set to dressing. "It's not your name, no one in your family, my name. It's not Doctor or Captain Jack. It's not TARDIS."

"No, it's a password, it's supposed to be secure. Who actually uses their mother's name as a password?"

Sherlock glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "Most people, actually."

"No wonder you've gotten a reputation as a good hacker, apparently people are idiots." She leaned over and typed her password into the computer. Sherlock watched her fingers- 9NtmyRRfyl10.

"Seems needlessly complicated for a computer with a lock."

"A computer with a lock that you just picked while apparently having enough time to put on trousers and make tea. I didn't even dry my hair so it couldn't have been more than 10 minutes."

"Thirteen." Sherlock opened a browser window.

"You had to go into your own room, get your jim jam bottoms and your lockpicks, open my computer, leave, again, make tea so it's still hot when I get out of the shower, return, and try several passwords in 13 minutes. Can't have taken you more than a few seconds to get the lock off. Also, why didn't you use your own computer?"

"Seven," he said, deliberately not answering her last question.

"And that's why it's a real password."

"Mmm," Sherlock intoned non-committally. He returned to the browser that he had opened and checked the reports on the phenomenon of the stars going out. As she dressed, he read her the highlights. He then opened his secure e-mail and gave her Mycroft's latest news. "Harriet Jones is considering announcing a state of emergency," he said.

"I expect she is," Rose said, pulling her vest over her head. "She shouldn't. It'll just send people into a panic and there's nothing that can be done."

"That's what Mycroft has apparently advised. She is giving it all due consideration."

"Good of her," Rose said, distractedly looking through her tops for something she was interested in wearing. She ended up deciding on purple because it was Sherlock's favourite colour. When she turned, he was looking at her oddly. "Yeah?"

"Last night," he began, and suddenly it was almost painful how young and uncertain he looked. "It was... it was good?" It was as though he wanted to make an assertion, but could not quite help the question at the end.

"It was brilliant," she reassured.

"Right, of course." Customary self-assurance back in place, Sherlock continued. "Is that going to become a regular part of the apology process? Tea and..." he glanced at the bed that was still rumpled from the previous night, "_Tea_?"

Rose burst out laughing. "I'm not sure you could have possibly said anything more British if you'd tried. Really? Tea as a euphemism for sex? Sexual repression, tea, now all you have to do is get stoicism and you have the British stereotype trifecta."

"Lukewarm and poorly prepared tea served by someone you hate but put up with out of a sense of duty?"

"I'll have you know that there is nothing lukewarm about my Tea, Sherlock Holmes." Rose came to stand in front of him, blocking his view of the computer screen.

He leaned back to grin up at her. "Nothing at all."

~?~?~?~?~

The light of their landing was bright in the dark street, but was easy to ignore given the grinding, wheezing sound issuing from the materializing blue box in front of them.

"We're home," Mickey breathed, looking around.

"Hide," Rose commanded, grabbing his sleeve and Sherlock's hand and dragging them into an alcove where they could see but not be seen and not a moment too soon as the TARDIS completed her materialization and, after only a moment, Mickey from some eight years previous spilled out followed more slowly by Rose, who was ignoring everything in favour of her mobile phone. Next came the dark-haired man in black leather who leaned against the front of the box and watched Rose with his intense blue eyes.

Mickey ran to a place of apparent safety behind some boxes and bins while Rose lifted her phone to her ear. She started laughing after a long moment, then pulled the phone away and pressed the button to turn it off. She then turned back to the young man, kneeling behind a wooden pallet with a grin. "Fat lot of good you were," she giggled, running over to him to give him a hug. She noticed that he was looking behind her, back at the police box, and she turned to see that mysterious man in the leather jacket looking at her from the entrance to the impossible space.

"Nestene consciousness?" He said in a jovial voice that belied the intensity with which he had been watching her before. He snapped his fingers. "Easy."

The adult Rose could hear the tension in the Doctor's voice that she hadn't heard the first time around. At nineteen, it had seemed that he had been all bright humour after nearly being killed and nearly getting half of London killed. At twenty-seven, she could tell that it was an act, and that there was a storm of pain brewing behind those gunmetal eyes.

"You were useless in there," her younger self accused. "You'd be dead if it wasn't for me."

"Yes, I would. Thank you."

Rose gasped. In her greater knowledge, the stark admission was a knife to her heart. He had not wanted to survive, but he had done so, and she was to blame. The thanks were honestly meant, however. Somehow, survival seemed worthwhile to him, and Rose knew why. Had he really known, even then, what it had taken her most of two years to realize? Watching him now, she thought that perhaps he had. He'd always fancied himself a bit omniscient, after all.

"Right then, I'll be off."

And there it was, Rose thought. That unwillingness to feel. He may have known, even then, but he was more coward than she was and would never admit it. She wanted to cry for the broken, scarred soldier that she had first fallen in love with, and she wanted to rage at him for never telling her what she most needed to hear.

"Unless, uh, I dunno," he shrugged, "you could come with me."

Sherlock was the master of telling when someone was lying. The Doctor might have been acting like Rose's answer made no difference to him, but his heart was on the line. Sherlock knew the feeling well. Better than (nearly) anyone in the universe, he thought. How many times had the universe hung on Rose Tyler's love?

"This box isn't just a London hopper, you know. It goes anywhere in the universe, free of charge."

"Don't." Young Mickey's voice was husky and frightened and both Rose and the Doctor looked at him as though they had forgotten he was there. "He's an alien, he's a _thing_!"

Sherlock glanced over at the Mickey beside him with a raised eyebrow.

"I was young and scared," he said with a shrug.

"He's not invited," the Doctor declared.

"Quite right, too," the older Mickey murmured.

"What do you think?" the Doctor asked, and everyone there, even Rose and Mickey at 19 and 24 could tell that everything rested on the answer to this question. The Doctor was hanging his hopes and his future on a young girl from a young planet around a young sun.

"You could fill your life with work and food and sleep or you could go, uh... anywhere."

And there it was, Rose thought. He'd offered her the universe, but it wasn't until he proved that he wanted her enough to come back that she knew he was offering what she wanted: him.

"Is it always this dangerous?" the younger Rose asked.

"Yeah," the older Rose breathed, at the same time that the Doctor said the same.

The younger Mickey, seeing that Rose was wavering toward the Doctor, wrapped himself around her legs to keep her. Sherlock understood the feeling. It was obvious that Rose was above the ordinary, dirty street around her. Even as young as she was, she was more than this, but it was hard not to want to keep her close and safe. Wrapped in cotton wool so she never had to lose the youthful innocence and take on the sadness and the pain that he occasionally saw in the golden glory of her eyes.

But she couldn't stay. She deserved the stars. Needed them to become what she must become.

"Yeah, I can't. I've um... I've got to go and find my mum and... someone's got to look after this stupid lump, so..."

It was the wrong answer. Again, everyone knew it. The younger Rose looked like she regretted it the instant the words were out of her mouth. Her eyes silently begged the Doctor to ask again. To check if she was sure.

"Okay," he said after a long moment where his face became shuttered and distant. Younger Rose looked shocked and upset. "See you around." Everyone knew that they wouldn't.

A long look passed between the eyes of the ancient alien and the youthful girl. A long look where they both begged the other, silently, to reconsider. Then the Doctor stepped back into his ship and shut the door with a snap. Moments later, the wheezing grind of the engines had the ship disappearing.

Sherlock knew what would happen, and he knew he had a more tenuous relationship with time than Rose or Mickey or the Doctor, but even he could feel that time stood still, unwilling to move forward because nothing could be right if Rose Tyler and the Doctor were not together. There was a long, long wait as the universe seemed to hold its breath.

The younger Rose was the first to escape the thrall of time disrupted. She looked down at Mickey and shook his shoulder. "Come on, let's go," she said in a small voice. When he didn't respond, she moved him bodily saying, "come on." She walked him down the alley way and they were about halfway down when time breathed again because the TARDIS engines could be heard.

Rose and Mickey turned to watch it reappear, and with it, all the sparkling possibilities of the universe returned.

From the doors, a dark, big-eared head popped out. "By the way, did I mention it also travels in time?"

"Hell of a chat-up line," the older Mickey murmured to Rose.

The younger Rose and the Doctor shared a smile, then he disappeared into his impossible conveyance.

Rose turned to Mickey. "Thanks."

"Thanks for what?"

"Exactly."

The older Rose winced. "Sorry, Mick. I'd forgotten that."

They all watched as Rose ran toward the TARDIS. The adult Rose had determined that the Doctor knew he was in love with her that night, but seeing her face as she ran, full of hope, and absolutely shining with joy, she knew that, even if she hadn't realized it then, she had been in love with the Doctor as well.

As the TARDIS dematerialized, Mickey walked away, back to the council flats and his ordinary life.

"It'll be a year before they come back," Rose murmured.

"He's gonna go through a lot," Mickey said, watching himself leave.

"Worth it?" she asked.

"Of course," he said with a smile.

The three of them stepped out of the alcove only to hear a voice from behind them, American-accented and heartbreakingly familiar. "Don't any one of you move, I'm armed."


	19. Saying Hi

**I don't say it nearly often enough, but this story would never have existed without Wholockgal. She talked me off the ledge on several occasions when I swore I was going to throw this story away and never write another word, so if you like it, I wholeheartedly recommend thanking her. Many of the ideas were hers during our drawing-board sessions, the trouble is that in a story this large, it's always hard to remember which ones were hers and which were mine, so I don't call them out as often as I should, so just know that if you think it's a really good idea or clever plot twist, it was probably her idea.**

**That said, she is posting (she took my advice and wrote it all out before posting) a really gorgeous RoseLock story called Fish Tales, and if you haven't gone and taken a look, you should do that right now. Immediately. This will wait.**

**This is a chapter that I used as a teaser on Tumblr in May, so some of you may recognize it.**

**Congrats to anyone who guessed who we're having show up in this chapter!**

* * *

"Put your hands up, behind your heads and turn around slowly," the voice continued. "You've seen some things that you're not supposed to see, and we'll have to fix that."

"And a bullet in the brain is a remarkably good way to make someone forget what they've seen," Sherlock snarked.

"Hush and do what he says, he's not going to hurt us," Rose said softly.

"Sure of that, are you?" the voice sneered. "Now you might be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and if so, you're right, I won't hurt you. But I think you know more than you should, and if you're here to hurt the two of them, there's no power in the universe that will stop me stopping you."

"What are they to you?" Rose asked curiously without turning around.

"Everything." The reply brimmed with powerful emotion. "They're the only family and the only hope I have."

Rose couldn't help herself. She had to see him, timelines be damned if they must. She spun on her heel and Sherlock and Mickey heard something clatter to the ground.

"Oh, Jack," she said, tears in her voice.

"Rose." The word was a reverent whisper, a prayer of a starving man. It was love and pain and heartache and desperate hope.

Almost before Sherlock realized it, Rose was not at his side. There was the sound of four running feet and a sudden stop. Mickey and Sherlock turned to find Rose wrapped in the arms of a good-looking man in a long, blue RAF coat, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. Captain Jack Harkness: legend. He picked her up and swung her just slightly. After a moment he set her back on her feet carefully to look at her.

"Hello gorgeous," he said, grinning.

"Captain," she answered in kind.

Without warning, Jack swept Rose back into his arms, but rather than a hug, this time he dipped her back and fitted his mouth over hers in a passionate snog.

Sherlock's fists clenched, and something hot, vicious and violent rose up inside of him, blacking out all his vision save for the image of the man kissing _his_… Rose.

A hand on his arm inserted itself into Sherlock's perceptions and Mickey's voice saying, "don't. It's not anything, promise."

Sherlock could see, now that his vision had cleared of rage somewhat, that Rose was squirming to get out of Jack's arms and giggling against his mouth.

"Oi," Mickey called to the pair. "Do we need to turn the hose on you two?"

Jack released Rose's mouth with an audible pop to grin up at Mickey. He set Rose back on her feet and charged over to Mickey crying, "Mickey the Idiot!" He wrapped Mickey up in a hug, lifting him as he had done to Rose. Mickey managed to dodge Jack's attempts at kissing him however, and it was with a slightly disappointed look that Jack turned to the final member of the threesome.

"Captain Jack Harkness," he said, extending a hand to Sherlock. "And you are?"

"Stop it," Mickey said without heat.

"I'm just saying 'hi.'"

"And a 'hi' from you is a 'let's go back to my flat and shag like bunnies' from anyone else in the universe," Rose said, joining the men again.

Jack did not appear to be listening, he was frowning at Sherlock as though trying to remember something. Sherlock held himself impassive, though the other man's scrutiny was becoming unnerving.

Suddenly, Jack's entire demeanour changed. The laughing flirt was no more and instead, before Sherlock stood a soldier. A killer.

"Who are you?" Jack asked, taking a single step to plant himself in front of Sherlock. The detective noticed that his move had placed him between Sherlock and Rose- the man's instinct was to protect her, and Sherlock could not fault him that, though his blue eyes were cold, murderous, and trained on Sherlock.

"Jack, it's fine," Rose said, laying a hand on his arm.

"No, it's not. I don't know what this guy told you, but he's a Time Agent."

"No, he's not," Rose assured him.

"Rose, I saw this guy in Pompeii." He turned back to Sherlock. "Whatever you want from her, you'll have to go through me."

"Jack, all three of us were in Pompeii. I promise you, he's not out to hurt me."

"You were in Pompeii?" For the first time, Jack's eyes left Sherlock as he turned to Rose. "You never told me you were in Pompeii."

"Well… I hadn't been, back then. You know how it is."

"Yeah, guess I do. So…" Jack glanced at Sherlock again, the light of interest back in his eyes, though the suspicion was not fully at bay, "this is?"

"Not available, thanks," Sherlock said, coolly.

Jack turned and raised his eyebrows at Rose, who gave him a nod and a shy smile. He shook his head with a grin. "You and your pretty boys. What does the Doctor think of him?"

Rose paled, opened her mouth and closed it again. "He…doesn't say much," she squeaked out, finally.

Jack did not miss it. "Rose?"

"I can't tell you the future. When are you, Jack? You know me so… when is it?"

Jack looked at her carefully, as though for the first time. He took in her face that was a bit thinner than he remembered, her hair that was a bit less brassy, her clothes that were a bit more posh and, finally, her eyes that held true sadness and true wisdom that she hadn't had the last time he'd seen her. She was older by several years and, for the first time, Jack noticed.

"The last words I said to you were that you, Rose Tyler, are worth fighting for."

He watched her eyes fill with tears. "I thought you were dead, Jack. He said… but I didn't believe him. I thought you'd died and we left you, but he… he changed, Jack. I wanted you there so bad and you weren't and he wasn't even himself. Gods, Jack. I wouldn't have left you if I thought you were alive." She was nearly crying by the end of it, desperate to assure, to convince and to apologize.

"Rose, sweetheart," Jack said, cupping her face in his hands, "don't cry. I know, love. I know you wouldn't have left me. Please don't cry, precious girl." He enfolded her in his arms again, more gently this time, and allowed her to rest her head on his shoulder. He looked over the top of her head at Mickey and Sherlock.

"So what happened to you, mate?" Mickey asked.

"After... after the Game Station I wanted to find the Doctor, so I figured 21st Century London, right? Got someone to fix my vortex manipulator cheap and came looking for them. Should have spent more money on it, I guess 'cause I landed in the 1840s and the damn thing broke. Had to take the slow path through."

Rose leaned out of Jack's arms to look up into his face. "But... Jack that means you're over 200 years old!"

He grinned, and she recognized it as the smile he used to cover topics he did not want to discuss. "Looking good for it, don't you think?"

"Jack..." she warned.

He sighed and the smile dropped from his face. "I can't... die, Rosie. I've been shot. I've been stabbed. I've been shoved off a roof. Hell, I've jumped off a building a time or two." Rose winced. "But it doesn't stick. I'm trying to find the Doctor because he's the only one who might be able to fix me. But I want to find him in the right time, obviously. I wouldn't jeopardize you or your future or the world just because I'm a bit more alive than I should be, you know? But... you didn't know when I was so... I must not catch back up until after... whenever you are. Rose, you have to tell me when it's going to be. When can I catch up to him?"

The look on Rose's face was pained. She didn't want to tell him too much, but he was right- if he somehow caught up to them too early, who knew what could happen?

"2007, spring," she finally said. "You have to give us two years from now. You can catch back up after that, yeah?"

Jack nodded, slowly. "Yeah, okay. I can do that. Are you still with him, Rose?"

"I can't tell you that, you know that."

"Yeah," he said softly. "It's just that... you said he changed?"

"Yeah... No more leather and ears."

"Too bad about the ass though." Jack grinned, trying to bring her back to him.

Rose obliged him by smiling back. "The new one has a nice backside as well, actually."

"Maybe it's just the Doctor then- always a nice bottom."

Mickey and Sherlock rolled their eyes.

"It's just that, I have this device, see? It lets me track him, but the DNA I have is from Moody Leather not... whoever the next one is going to be. Do you have any DNA?"

Rose gave Jack a startled look. "What? Are you asking if I run around the universe with the Doctor's skin cells in my pocket?"

Jack shrugged and Mickey laughed.

"No, I don't have his DNA." Rose paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "But I might know when you can get some."

Jack looked surprised. "Yeah?"

"Christmas 2006, London. There'll be a... hand. It'll fall to Earth. It's the Doctor's."

"What...?" Jack began.

"Can't tell you, but I promise, you'll know where he is. Centre of trouble, as always. Just... be sure you get that hand and no one else does, Jack. Please?"

Jack nodded at her. He could see how important it was.

"Thank you. Gods, I'm so glad I got to see you again." Without warning, she threw herself back into his arms.

"I'm glad to see you too, beautiful," he murmured into her hair. "I missed you. I missed both of you so much."

She leaned back into the circle of his arms again. "Jack," she said in a suddenly suspicious tone, "what are you doing here tonight? You know it's not the right time, obviously."

Jack looked slightly sheepish. "Well… I've kind of kept an eye on you over the years. You know, just stopping by every once in a while to check in. Can't say I approve of your taste in men, Rosie." He gave her a falsely stern look.

"You can talk."

"With the best of them." He grinned, but then his face sobered. "I guess… I just wanted to see where it all began. The first time I felt good about my life. I wanted… well, guess I've gotten a bit sentimental in my old age."

"Oh, Jack." Rose was hugging him again, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck as she stroked his hair and whispered sweetness into his ear.

When finally he looked up, eyes damp and red-rimmed she sighed and said, with regret, "we need to go."

He nodded, understanding. When she'd stepped from the circle if his arms to take her place between Sherlock and Mickey he said, "I'll see you around, Rose Tyler."

"Not if I see you first, Jack Harkness."

In a blinding flash of light, they were gone. Jack shook his head. He wondered what had separated her from the Doctor, and he hoped that she made it back to him soon. It was hard to imagine that she would have found someone else, but the dark-haired man with the sharp cheekbones and long coat was striking. There was something of the wolf in him, Jack thought, nonsensically. And he looked at her like the Doctor used to- like the entire world was wrapped up in her pretty little hands.

Jack had two years and no young Rose to check up on. It was time to settle in again and find a way to keep out of trouble.


	20. Keep Her Safe

**Those of you who follow me on Tumblr know that, when I'm not shipping Rose and Sherlock, I'm shipping Rose and Nine like mad.**

_In a shameless self-plug, I could mention that I have a Nine x Rose WWI AU currently publishing once a week, but I would never do something like that... Never._

**So... we have here another moment that my Nine x Rose shipper heart couldn't leave out of this season 1-4 re-write.**

**For those of you that haven't heard, SquirrelWho is publishing more chapters of her absolutely gorgeous fic _His Impossible Girl_. If you're not reading it or haven't read it, you really, REALLY should.**

**Really.**

**Additionally, as I mentioned yesterday, all of the good plot twists can be attributed to WLG, and this chapter is no exception. She's brilliant. Far more than I.**

**Also, another thing I don't do nearly often enough is thank every last one of you who comments, reviews, favourites, and even just reads and moves on. I love that people are enjoying this story with me, and I love you all!**

* * *

The next time they landed, it was within feet of where last they had been standing, it was still night, and they might well have arrived in the same time and place, save for the sounds of sirens, helicopters, and megaphones. Their flash of light was completely overlooked in the cacophony, but Rose tugged them to their hiding place yet again to watch what was happening.

"_Do not move. Step away from the box and raise your hands above your heads_."

A helicopter was spotlighting Rose, the Doctor in leather and Mickey as they stood outside the TARDIS. Police cars and armoured military vehicles surrounded them.

"_You are under arrest. Do not move._"

The younger Mickey, who had been looking around in greater and greater panic as they were approached by police and military and as the bright spotlight of the helicopter continued to grow ever closer, panicked and ran, leaving the Doctor and Rose behind.

"Heart of a lion, I had," Mickey muttered, glaring after his own retreating form.

"You saved the day later, love," Rose reassured him softly.

A much younger Jackie Tyler appeared on the scene screaming for her daughter, but she was barely audible over the cacophony.

"_Raise your hands above your heads. You are under arrest._"

"You two never could stay out of trouble, could you?" Sherlock murmured.

"Never really learned how, no," Rose said with a smile.

The younger Rose and the Doctor raised their hands, the Doctor with a bright, mad grin on his face.

"Take me to your leader!" he said, cheerfully.

"He always liked saying that," older Rose said.

Rose and the Doctor were shuffled into a police car, Jackie Tyler escorted back into her building by a large police officer. The military followed the Doctor and Rose back to wherever it was they were going.

"Downing Street," Rose said softly. "We'll meet the Family Slitheen and Harriet Jones, just a back-bench MP from a tiny little village now, but she'll be Prime Minister soon." She smiled with nostalgia.

"So we should go?" Mickey asked.

Rose glanced around the suddenly quiet street. "Actually," she said, thinking, "this is probably a good time to talk to the TARDIS. Haven't had a chance since Pompeii, you know?"

"That's probably a good idea," Sherlock said.

Rose smiled up at him, and he found himself smiling back. Mickey snorted under his breath, but was otherwise silent. They were a bit like teenagers.

After a long moment, however, where the two of them didn't seem interested in moving forward save to continue grinning at each other like idiots, Mickey spoke up. "We going to check in with the Old Girl?"

"Right, of course," Rose said, blushing slightly. "Let's go then."

The three of them jogged toward the TARDIS, and Rose brushed her fingertips over the words "BAD WOLF" painted onto the side. The Doctor would intimidate a neighbourhood boy into confessing that he'd written it, and make him wash it off, but Rose knew that it was her fault, really, and if anyone should be made to clean, it should be she. However, she also knew better than to change time.

Once inside the impossible box, Mickey set to work on the console monitor, checking on the situation at hand. Sherlock stood quiet, collecting himself as he always had to when he entered this impossible space. Before Rose materialized the elfin girl with the dark hair and dark eyes whose form the TARDIS had taken before: Susan.

"Rose Tyler, companion of the Doctor. Time period: early 21st Century. Planet: Earth." The TARDIS then squinted at Rose as though trying to see under her skin. "But also not. You're not the girl who is travelling with me, are you?"

"I was her, once," Rose said, softly.

The TARDIS' eyes widened. "Oh," she breathed then, "you were. And you will be." After another long moment, she grinned. "There you are. Oh, aren't you beautiful? The Wolf will end the Time War. Isn't that... what's that word he uses?"

"Fantastic?"

"That's the one. Isn't that fantastic?"

"TARDIS, can you tell me how far we are? We're running out of time."

"Oh my sweet Wolf, it's only just beginning for me, but you... I think you're nearly there. But it's just going to get more difficult now. Such a long road."

"Rose!" Mickey called from across the console. "Rose, something's wrong here."

She ran up the ramp to Mickey and stood behind him to watch over his shoulder. "What's up?" she asked.

"This is not what I had to get through to get into UNIT the last time... well... this time." He frowned, trying to figure out the proper tenses for time travel.

"Forget the grammar," Rose scolded. "What are you on about?"

"These firewalls. They weren't there the last time. I didn't have to get through them."

"No," the TARDIS agreed, coming to Mickey's other side. "Because you got through them."

"No I didn't. I wouldn't have known how."

"No, you didn't have to," the TARDIS gestured to the door, "because you already had," the TARDIS touched his shoulder.

"What do you..." Mickey began and then the light seemed to dawn. "Oh! I've got to clear the way for... me!" He frowned again, slightly. "I'm not sure I'm good enough to do it and be undetectable to myself. I feel sure I'd remember if I'd seen anything that looked like it'd been a cleared path."

"Funny," Rose said, glancing over her shoulder, "I know a guy who might be able to help."

Mickey and the TARDIS looked over as well to where Sherlock still had his eyes closed and his head resting on the wall.

The TARDIS looked at Sherlock as though she was noticing him for the first time. "Oh," she breathed, "you've taken a companion, Wolf!"

Mickey and Rose started to laugh, and Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at the manifestation of the time ship. He found it easier to be irritated with it when it was not appearing as John Watson.

"I suppose, if you prefer to think of it that way," Rose said, chortling.

The TARDIS' eyes went vague. "Every lonely monster needs a companion," she murmured, and then she was back. "The pretty one can help, yes. He must help."

"So..." Mickey began as Sherlock strode up the ramp to his side, "we would never have saved the world before if... if we weren't trying to save the world?"

Rose grinned. "S'pose not. Good to know we're on the right track though, isn't it?"

Mickey and Sherlock set to work on the computer, so Rose joined the TARDIS sitting on the jumpseat.

The TARDIS looked at Rose for a long moment. "Wolf," she began, then tried again. "Arkytior, there's something you must know. Something I must tell you. Something I have told you. Something... it's important."

"Yeah, all right. What is it?"

"There's someone coming. Coming for the Doctor, for his hearts. She is a tune over the waters and she is coming. I am so sorry, Arkytior."

Rose frowned. "Is she going to hurt the Doctor?"

"In the worst ways."

"I'll stop her. TARDIS, you know I'll protect the Doctor from anything."

"Not from this, Arkytior. This... he must go through this. The universe requires it. She will seek his hearts, but... oh my Wolf... I do not know if he can give them to her, or if he will want to. The future... it is so difficult. But then, sometimes the past is the future, is it not?"

Rose smiled a bit. "It is, yeah. Thank you for telling me, TARDIS. I'll... well, I'll do what I can."

"I think we've done it!" Mickey called from across the console. "Is there a way to know for sure though?"

"Of course," the TARDIS said with a smile. She glided up the ramp to where Mickey stood and touched a speaker box beside the monitor. Suddenly, out of it came the Doctor's Northern drawl.

"Is that Rickey? Don't talk just shut up and go to your computer."

"It's Mickey and why should I?" Mickey's voice came from the speaker as well, young, resentful and aggressive.

"Mickey the Idiot, I might just choke before I finish this sentence but, uh, I need you."

"Quite the charmer," Sherlock muttered.

"He's always been difficult, but he's at his most abrasive now," the TARDIS agreed.

"All right, all right," Mickey answered, though he sounded a bit smug over the phone.

The Doctor talked him through the backdoors of the UNIT website, though he seemed unaware of the firewalls that Sherlock and Mickey from the future had cleared away. When finally his younger self was in, Mickey let out a whoop and punched the air.

"It says password," younger Mickey said over the phone as the team inside the TARDIS celebrated their success with hugs.

"Say again," the Doctor asked, and the timbre of his voice had changed such that you could tell he had put the phone's speaker function on.

"It's asking for the password," the young Mickey repeated.

"'Buffalo.' Two 'f's,' one 'l.'"

"So what's that website?" came another voice over the phone. Were Sherlock not himself, he might not have recognized Jackie's voice- in his home universe, her accents were not perfect, but they were smoother, more polished than this woman's. Her voice was more gentle, where this woman's was strident even when she was speaking softly.

"All the secret information known to mankind," young Mickey answered, sounding dark and mysterious. "See, they've known about aliens for years, they just kept us in the dark."

"Not the slightest bit dramatic, Mick," Rose teased.

"Mickey, you were _born_ in the dark." The Doctor sounded bitter and irritated.

"Oh leave him alone." Rose, on the other hand, sounded exhausted.

"Thank you," both Mickeys said to their respective Roses. "Password again," the Mickey in the flats said after a moment.

"Just repeat it every time," the Doctor said. After a moment he started talking, and it was clear from the way his voice came through the speaker that he was pacing. "Big Ben. Why did the Slitheen go and hit Big Ben?"

"You said to gather the experts, to kill them," came a new voice.

"Harriet Jones," Rose explained to Sherlock who was frowning as though trying to place the voice.

"Younger than ever I knew her," Sherlock said, nodding.

"That lot would have gathered for a weather balloon. You don't need to crash-land in the middle of London."

"They needed the world's attention on them," Sherlock said, apparently having all the necessary pieces. "Fake an invasion, put the world on high-alert for... the nuclear launch codes. The world all together against an alien threat, and then England has the codes. That's it, isn't it?" He turned to Rose, the light of a solved mystery in his eyes.

Rose looked quite shocked. "You got that faster than the Doctor did. We were practically on top of the solution before he had it. That's amazing."

As Sherlock had been deducting, the conversation over the phone had continued. Suddenly they heard Jackie's voice again.

"Well I've got a question, if you don't mind. Because since that man walked into our lives, I have been attacked in the streets, I have had creatures from the pits of hell in my own living room, and my daughter disappear of the face of the Earth."

"I told you what happened." Rose's voice over the phone was both youthful exasperation with her mother's inability to listen, and also anger on behalf of the Doctor.

"I'm talking to _him_. 'Cause I've seen this life of yours, Doctor. And maybe you get off on it, and maybe you think it's all clever and smart but you tell me, just answer me this- is my daughter safe?"

"I'm fine," Rose was quick to reassure.

Jackie ignored this. "Is she safe? Will she always be safe? Can you promise me that?"

There was a long moment of silence. The Rose in the TARDIS was tense, remembering. The Doctor had been watching her with those icy eyes, and she had wondered then if he regretted taking her along.

"Well?" Jackie broke the silence. "What's the answer?"

Another long moment and then something that sounded like fumbling over the speaker and Mickey's voice again. "We're in."

The Doctor began to explain where to go to find the signal that was being broadcast. A weird warble came through the phone, not unlike the sound of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver.

"It's some kind of message," he muttered.

"What's it saying?" the younger Rose asked.

"I don't know. It's on a loop, it keeps repeating."

A door chime sounded and the Doctor called an irritated "hush."

"That's not me," Mickey said. "Go and see who that is."

"It's 3:00 in the morning." Jackie's voice just came through the phone.

"Well go and tell them that." Mickey was all irritation.

"There are days I'm really glad we live on the other side of London from my mother now," Rose said, bumping Mickey's shoulder.

"She's not so bad," Mickey said. "Sometimes misses the bigger picture, and it's nice we don't live with her, but she's all right."

"It's beaming out to space," the Doctor muttered, ignoring the continued chimes from the door on the other side of the line. "But who is it for?"

They continued to listen to the warble for a minute when Jackie's voice returned. "It's the thing! It's the slip-een!"

"They've found us," Mickey said darkly, into the phone.

"Mickey, I need that signal," the Doctor ordered.

"Never mind the signal." Rose's teenaged voice was slightly panicky. "Mum get out! Just get out."

"He could be a right bastard," Mickey said from the TARDIS. "There we were, fighting for our lives, and he needed to hear the signal so he could solve the mystery."

"Bit of tunnel-vision," Rose agreed. "One of the things that made me so angry with him. The universe is bigger than just humans, and I understand that, but he acted like it was a weakness to care for humans and want to keep them safe."

Sherlock listened. Telling someone to remain in danger while he worked out a clue sounded exactly like something that he would do. It concerned him to compare himself to the Doctor who he considered reckless and dangerous. He had a feeling, suddenly, that those words could be used to describe him as well.

"There's got to be some way of stopping them!" Harriet Jones' voice was shrill with panic. "You're supposed to be the expert, think of something!"

"I'm trying," the Doctor barked.

Mickey made a brave stand that not a single one of them really believed and then, a quiet, calm voice- the only calm voice of any that had been heard over the phone's speaker spoke. "That's my mother." Rose had not pleaded, she did not whine, she merely reminded the Doctor of these people's place in the universe.

After a long, quiet moment, the Doctor's voice was back, laced with a manic energy. "Right! If we're gonna find their weakness we need to find out where they're from. Which planet. So, judging by their basic shape, that narrows it down to 5000 planets within travelling distance. What else do we know about them? Information!"

"They're green." Rose's younger self stated the obvious.

"Yep, narrows it down."

Sherlock was shocked. The Doctor was, for all intents and purposes, using the Method of Loci- the mind palace method that he, himself, used to solve cases on a regular basis. He was sifting through the information until he found the right piece that tied all the disparate clues together. Sherlock could not help but be impressed.

"Good sense of smell." Young Rose was beginning to think again.

"Narrows it down."

"They can smell adrenaline."

"Narrows it down."

"The pig technology," Harriet offered.

"Narrows it down."

"The spaceship in the Thames, you said slipstream engine?" Rose again.

"Narrows it down."

"It's getting in." Young Mickey sounded panicked.

"They hunt like it's a ritual," Rose tried sounding more upset than before.

"Narrows it down."

"Come on," the older Rose beside Sherlock muttered. "You've got the answers, you're almost there."

"Wait a minute," Harriet said, clearly working it out as well. "Did you notice when they fart- if you'll pardon the word- it doesn't just smell like a fart- if you'll pardon the word- it's something else. What is it?"

"And you accuse me of being a British stereotype," Sherlock muttered to Rose.

"Hush."

"It's more like, um... Bad breath!" Rose cried.

"That's it!" Harriet enthused.

"Calcium decay!" the Doctor shouted. "Now _that_ narrows it down!"

"We're getting there, mum!" Rose reassured.

"Calcium phosphate, organic calcium, living calcium, creatures made out of living calcium," the Doctor was moving at top speed.

Sherlock was, reluctantly, impressed with his speed. Under those circumstances, even his impressive mind would have stuttered, but the Doctor managed to work through it.

"What else?" the Doctor asked. "What else? Hyphenated surname. Yes! That narrows it down to one planet! Raxacoricofallapatorius!"

"He's making that up," Sherlock said with a frown.

"He's not, I've been there," Rose said. "Now hush."

Crashing and screaming continued down the line but the Doctor seemed to be on the case. "Get into the kitchen," he ordered. "Calcium, recombined with the compression field. Acetic acid. Vinegar."

"Like Hannibal," Sherlock said at the same time that Harriet Jones said the same.

"Just like Hannibal," the Doctor agreed with both of them, all unknowing. "Mickey, have you got any vinegar?"

"How should I know?"

Rose in the TARDIS began to laugh and Sherlock turned to the Mickey of the future who looked a bit sheepish.

"He had every right to call me an idiot," Mickey admitted.

"It's your kitchen," the Doctor said, all incredulity.

"Cupboard by the sink, middle shelf," the younger Rose said.

"Gods, no wonder you left me," Mickey said with a grin. "I was a sexist stereotype."

"You got better," Rose said as Jackie took the phone and was instructed to find anything with vinegar.

"Gherkins," she cried as crashes and shouts echoed in the background. "Yeah. Pickled onions. Pickled eggs."

"You kiss this man?" the Doctor asked the younger Rose which set the group in the TARDIS laughing.

They heard roaring and crashing and screaming and horrible noises that ended in an inhuman shriek and an explosion, and they all sobered quickly.

"Are we horrible for laughing at a time like this?" Rose asked, quietly. "People have died and more could do."

"You humans," the TARDIS said, amused. "So resilient and yet so fragile as well. Don't you understand that this is why the Doctor laughs and bounces and moves like a madman- he knows what can happen and what will and what should and what should not, and yet he must continue. Laughter is, often, the only way to do it."

"Hannibal crossed the Alps by dissolving boulders with vinegar." Harriet's voice came from over the speaker in the quiet of the control room.

"Actually," Sherlock began, pedantically which caused Rose and Mickey to roll their eyes, "Hannibal did not dissolve rocks, he was more likely to have used the ascetic acid to, effectively, blow them up."

"So a lot like what we did there, actually," Mickey said.

There was a long silence over the phone while everyone seemed to catch their breath for a moment but then, too quickly, Mickey was back. "Listen to this," he said darkly and with a shuffle and a crackle, the television interview that the alien was giving began to play over the phone.

"…have investigated the sky above our heads and they have found massive weapons of destruction capable of being deployed within 45 seconds. Our technicians can baffle the alien probes, but not for long. We are facing extinction unless we strike first. The United Kingdom stands directly beneath the belly of the mothership. I beg of the United Nations- pass an emergency resolution. Give us the access codes. A nuclear strike at the heart of the beast is our only chance of survival. Because, from this moment on, it is my solemn duty to inform you: planet Earth is at war."

"He's making it up," Sherlock said at the same time as the Doctor.

"There's no weapons up there. There's no threat. He's just invented it," the Doctor continued.

"Do you think they'll believe him?" Harriet's voice was a bit shaky.

"Of course they'll believe him," Sherlock cried. "They've set it up perfectly- made sure all eyes are on England. That's why they ran into Big Ben- it's spectacle."

"That's why the Slitheen went for spectacle," the Doctor confirmed from across town. "They want the whole world panicking, 'cause you lot, you get scared, you lash out."

They could hear him moving around the room again and when next he spoke, his voice was barely audible over the phone.

"But why?" Sherlock asked just as Harriet asked the same.

Some electronic buzzing came over the phone and the Doctor spoke again, though he was hard to hear.

"You get the codes, release the missiles. But not into space 'cause there's nothing there. You attack every other country on Earth. They retaliate, fight back. World War Three- whole planet gets nuked."

"And we can sit through it safe in our spaceship, waiting in the Thames." This voice was new, but, from the sound of it, obviously one of the aliens. "Not crashed, just parked. Barely two minutes away."

"But you'll destroy the planet, this beautiful place, what for?" Harriet sounded completely indignant.

"Profit," the Doctor bit off. "That's what the signal is, beaming into space, an advert."

"Sale of the century. We reduce the Earth to molten slag and then sell it, piece by piece. Radioactive chunks capable of powering every cut-price star liner and budget cargo ship. There's a recession out there Doctor. People are buying cheap. This rock becomes raw fuel."

"At the cost of five billion lives."

"Bargain," the alien woman laughed.

"Then I give you a choice."

"Stupid bastard always did, even when he knew what they'd choose," Rose said softly.

"Leave this planet or I'll stop you."

There was the sound of laughter and Rose in the TARDIS shook her head sadly.

"What? You? Trapped in your box?"

"Yes. Me."

Sherlock shuddered with the power behind those words. They were the words and the voice of a ruthless man pushed to the edge. Save for the accent, they might have been spoken by him.

There was a long time after that where no one talked. There was shifting and murmuring and the low sound of a television in the background, but no one spoke. Sherlock took a seat on the captain's chair and stretched his legs before him to think. Given what he'd noticed on the UNIT servers, he had an idea of what the most simple answer should be. He also had a feeling that the Doctor knew the answer too. Sherlock could not see another one, but he knew it must be there- Rose was leaning against the railing across the console from him talking softly to the physical manifestation of the TARDIS interface like they were old girlfriends. If the Doctor did what Sherlock thought he had to do, Rose would never have survived. He wasn't even sure the Doctor himself would have.

He hoped the Doctor came up with a better answer soon.

After a very long time, Jackie came back to the phone. "All right, Doctor. I'm not saying I trust you but there must be something you can do."

"If we could ferment the port, we could make ascetic acid..." Harriet mused.

"That doesn't make any sense," Sherlock replied, though he knew no one was listening to him.

"Mickey, any luck?" Rose's voice over the phone sounded tired, but she still didn't sound as scared as she should. She obviously trusted the Doctor still.

"There's loads of emergency numbers," Mickey said from the other end. "They're all on voicemail."

"Voicemail dooms us all," Harriet sighed.

"If we could just get out of here-" Rose began.

"There's a way out," the Doctor interrupted.

"What?" Rose from the phone and Sherlock both asked the question at the same time.

"There's always been a way out." The Doctor's voice was all defeat. It was darkly serious, and Sherlock had a feeling that he knew what the alien was about to suggest.

"Then why don't we use it?"

"Because I can't guarantee your daughter will be safe." It was a final sort of a statement, and it was directed at Jackie and no one else. Jackie who had been nothing but adversarial to him. Jackie who would tell him not to.

As he had hoped, Jackie said, "don't you dare. Whatever it is, don't you dare."

"That's the thing, if I don't dare, everyone dies."

"Do it." Rose's voice was in stereo. She had spoken quietly with her past self, but the conviction and trust were the same in both voices. She knew that he would make the right decision, when she was 19 she had known, and when she was 26 she still believed.

"You don't even know what it is. You'd just let me?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock agreed with the Doctor's sentiment. He knew, or believed he did. She couldn't have known, else she would never have said it with that kind of conviction.

And yet, she still said it. Knowing that time could be changed. Knowing that by being there, they might be breaking everything that they were trying to fix. She could die in the past here, and they would all disappear as though they had never been.

"Please, Doctor, please," Jackie pleaded over the phone. "She's my daughter, she's just a kid."

Sherlock wanted to rail at Jackie Tyler in that moment. The woman that he could hear over the phone was no 'kid.' She was strong and trusting and very, very brave. Rose Tyler had obviously never in her life been 'just' anything.

"Do you think I don't know that?" The Doctor's voice was all pain and sorrow and soft, gentle love. Sherlock could almost see the look of awe that he always seemed to wear when he looked at Rose. His voice was harder though, as he continued to speak. "'Cause this is my life, Jackie. It's not fun. It's not smart. It's just standing up and making a decision because nobody else will."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I could save the world but lose you."

For a very long moment, no one moved. Mickey and Rose had heard this before. Rose had lived it. The TARDIS must know, but still they all waiting in the growing silence as the Doctor did not quite confess what was in his double hearts.

Finally, after the silence had become nearly agonizing, Harriet spoke and the tension shattered like glass. "Except it's not your decision, Doctor, it's mine."

Everyone on the TARDIS breathed again. Mickey bent back towards the computer monitor and made sure that everything was clear for his past self. Rose sat on the jumpseat beside Sherlock looking thoughtful.

"You let him shoot a missile at you," Sherlock accused, unable to keep quiet.

"Well spotted," she said blithely.

"He could have gotten you killed."

"And he obviously didn't."

"How did you survive?"

"Hid in a closet."

Sherlock frowned at her. "You're mad, you know that?"

"You've taken to stating the obvious tonight, are you feeling all right?"

"Mickey the Idiot," they heard from across the room. "The world is in your hands. Fire."

Mickey looked up at them. "It's done. The world is safe, barring a few intercepted missiles and a reinforced storage cupboard."

"He's right," the TARDIS agreed. "All will go as it should. As it always should. It's time for you to go. You are getting closer now, and I am getting farther away. Until next we meet, Soldier, Arkytior, and Companion."

She touched the monitor and everything went blank, their presence erased, and then she vanished from in front of them.

~?~?~?~?~

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a long blue coat stood watching a blue police box that no one else could see. At his work station in the underground offices that did not exist, an alarm had gone off when it had arrived, but he had not heard it because he'd been above-ground waiting for it.

From the box that should not have held them all spilled a young, athletic-looking black man, a tall, blue-eyed con man, a blonde girl with stars in her eyes, and an old, dark-haired soldier with war behind his face and fingers linked with the blonde.

The man sighed. He'd known that he would see them (though only from a distance) the moment he'd seen that morning's papers. He couldn't stay away, but he couldn't get too close. He wanted to find absolution in the girl's arms, but knew that he couldn't yet, and that he already had. Time was a funny thing.

Once the group had left the police box behind to go to a café that had since become one of his favourites, there was a flash of light- almost unnoticeable in the brightness of day, and there was the black man and the blonde girl again.

Jack sighed. He'd been afraid that he'd see her here. He had a bit of an idea of what might be happening (following the TARDIS through time), and it worried him. She was wearing the same clothes she had been when last he'd seen her- purple t-shirt under a blue leather jacket. Both Mickey and the mysterious dark-haired man were armed- Mickey with something large and lethal-looking, the other with something that could be carried under his jacket and coat because his hands were free.

From this distance, Jack could see the way they moved. Mickey was a soldier, and it was clear that Rose could tell him to rush the gates of Hell and he would follow her orders. It had always been that way- Rose spoke and Mickey listened and Jack had known even then that they were destined to love each other as friends and compatriots, but not as lovers.

The other man was harder to read, but not as difficult as he might fancy himself. He followed Rose's orders, but not with the air of a man used to doing so. Like the Doctor, he seemed to do as Rose told him because it was her, and he trusted her, and he, like Mickey, would storm the gates of Hell for her, but not because she'd ordered it- because he wanted to see her smile.

Jack wasn't entirely sure what was going on, or where the Doctor was. As similar as the tall man was to the Time Lord, Jack could tell that he wasn't the alien. There was no swirl of the universe behind his eyes, no memory of genocide in his words. Whoever he was, he was new. Somehow, though, Jack could see that the energy between the pretty blonde girl and the striking man was even more volatile and powerful than ever it had been between Rose and the Doctor, and that could have been a story to move the stars. Maybe that was why they had been sent away, though why the Doctor would let them get their hands on a vortex manipulator, Jack had no idea.

More questions than answers, he thought. It always seemed to be that way in his life. He watched the trio disappear and made his way back to Roald Dahl Plass to get back to work. There was going to be a cataclysm in a few hours, and he would need to take care of the fallout.


	21. Create Myself

**For those of you in the United States with me, I'd like to wish you all a happy Fourth!**

**For those of you outside of the United States, I'm a bit sorry that you have to work today and hope this chapter helps!**

**As ever, Doctor Who, Sherlock, and all of this silliness belong to someone much cleverer than I.**

* * *

They landed in the play park of the Powell Estates on an overcast, late-autumn day in time to watch Mickey in a black coat escorting Rose in a pink hoodie away from the old, blue box.

"This is it," Rose breathed, looking around. "This is the day I become the Bad Wolf and kill the Doctor."

"Two-hundred thousand years in the future, today," Mickey said.

Rose did not acknowledge him. Instead, she took off at a run toward a vacant lot down the block.

"We need to leave!" Mickey called after her, rushing with Sherlock on his heels to catch her up. When finally they arrived it was to find Rose standing in the middle of the pavement, looking around.

"Rose, we have to go, we can't mess with anything here."

"We went to tea at the chippy, Mick, we have almost an hour. Look around," Rose said.

As instructed, Mickey looked about himself. "What am I looking for?"

Rose pointed to the walls where graffiti covered the bricks. "The Bad Wolf graffiti is over there, but that's not the first thing I saw. It said Bad Wolf on the ground here, remember? Where is it?"

Mickey frowned around him. "It's not here."

"No. Does that mean something's wrong? What if I can't get back to him?" Rose was frowning at the ground, trying to work out what was happening. "The Bad Wolf on the ground was what made me see the Bad Wolf on the walls, and that's what made me believe that I could make it back so… what if I don't make the connection this time?"

"So put Bad Wolf on the ground."

Rose and Mickey turned shocked eyes on Sherlock who shrugged. "Seems to me that if something isn't the way you remember it being, you can fix it since we're here. Make the circumstances right."

Without warning, Rose threw herself into Sherlock's arms. "You're brilliant, you are," she said as she rained kisses over his face. After a moment, she pulled back to find Sherlock's face bright red and she laughed. She stepped out of the circle of his arms and turned to Mickey. "We're going to tag the play park, Mick," she said with a grin.

"With what, exactly?" Mickey asked, though a smile was creeping onto his face at Rose's enthusiasm.

Without speaking, Sherlock pointed to a bunch of bins in the alley next to the vacant lot. There beside them, as though they had been thrown there in a hurry were five or six cans of yellow and white spray paint.

"Nothin' gets past you, does it?" Mickey asked with a smile.

"Nothing criminal, no," Sherlock said with a small smile, flush still lingering on his cheeks.

Rose took off for the alley at a run, leaving Mickey and Sherlock behind.

"You and her all right?" Mickey asked in her rare absence.

"I believe so, yes."

"And are you all right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Looking for the Doctor… her seeing him again?"

Sherlock glanced at Mickey from the corner of his eye, but the other man kept his eyes on Rose and his face gave nothing away.

"I can't say it doesn't worry me," Sherlock admitted, surprising even himself with his honesty, "but I do trust her."

"And you don't trust many."

"No."

"Have you told her you love her?"

Sherlock remained silent, considering this too personal to share. Mickey, however, correctly interpreted the silence and continued.

"No, of course you haven't. And she hasn't either. Cowards, the pair of you, but I guess I understand. Difficult times."

"Dangerous times."

"Not that the pair of you know how to live in anything else."

"Not that we'd want to," Sherlock concluded as Rose returned, arms full of paint cans.

The three of them got to work tagging the asphalt. Had a police officer walked by they might have looked like the strangest vandals ever- two men in their thirties and a girl nearly there, dressed in expensive clothes and arguing about how to paint two words across the length of the vacant lot.

When finally they had finished painting and Rose was satisfied that it looked like her memory, she carried the cans back to the bins.

When she returned, she stood with Mickey and Sherlock for a long moment, looking at Bad Wolf scrawled all over the lot.

"I create myself," she said softly. "I wrote the words so that I can go and write the words… I think it's probably a paradox or a temporal loop or… something." She sighed. "We should go."

~?~?~?~?~

A night's sleep, food, shower and a change of clothes and the trio was back in early-twenty-first-century London.

"Didn't you ever go anywhere else?" Sherlock asked.

"Found ourselves running into Earth about once a week, when we ran out of milk," Rose answered blithely.

"S'cold," Mickey observed.

"S'Christmas," Rose said, pointing to the slightly sad decorations on the balcony of one of the council flats.

The wind blew litter across the play park and Sherlock reached down and snagged a crumpled sheet of newsprint as it bounced past. "2006," he said, glancing over it. "Paper's in too good of condition to have been sitting around for a year."

Rose's face paled. "Sycorax," she whispered.

"Thou liest malignant thing! Hast though forgot the foul witch Sycorax who with age and envy was grown into a hoop?" Sherlock quoted.

Both Rose and Mickey looked at Sherlock as though he were mad.

"_The Tempest_? William Shakespeare? You've heard of him, yes?"

"You're kidding!" Mickey said.

"Really? The Sycorax are in The Tempest?"

"No," Sherlock said, exasperated. "There was a witch who was dead before the play started and her name was Sycorax."

"Wonder where he heard it," Mickey said, looking surprised.

"I don't. Weren't we in Shakespeare's London just a few weeks ago? Bet it was the Oncoming Babble himself."

"Probably also him what lost Love's Labour's Won, you think?"

"I've absolutely no doubt-" Rose cut off as Sherlock brushed past without acknowledging her. "Sherlock?" she called after him, but he did not reply.

Mickey and Rose took in the jerky way he was walking and the way he did not seem to be focusing on anything but getting to the nearest building.

"What's his blood type?" Mickey asked.

"Couldn't be sure, but I'd make a wild stab at A-positive," Rose said, starting after the detective in the long coat.

Mickey caught her up after a moment. "Why are we following him? We know he's not in any danger."

"Last time I let that idiot stand on top of a building, I had to save his arse. Have to stick close unless it happens again."

"The last time you saved him by throwing him off the building."

"You never know." Rose shot a cheeky smile at him once they caught up with Sherlock. "Might have to do it again."

They followed the dark-haired detective to the top of a building. Fortunately, it was Mickey's old building that Sherlock ascended, not Rose's where their past selves and Jackie were panicking and the Doctor was sleeping.

Rose watched Sherlock take his place on the edge of the building next to the citizens of the block of flats below them. His coat was warmer, his suit more tailored, his hair cleaner, his shoes more expensive. In a thousand subtle ways, she could see the differences between who and what he was and who and what she had been. Near-poverty surrounded them, the indigent and hopeless and desperate and exhausted, the near-broken, those who believed they had no other recourse and those who knew they didn't. Rose was reminded that she'd been given the universe and then, when the universe had been taken away from her, she'd been given the world in its place, and she felt horrible. She was exactly the same at the people surrounding her, she'd been born among them and had done nothing to earn what she'd been offered, and yet she could not return it, nor would she, given the choice.

She shook away the thoughts- no time for that now. She had to save the universe, be sure that they all had a tomorrow, before she made sure that they all had a hopeful tomorrow. It seemed limited, but it was all she could offer at the time.

"Weird to be back on the old estate," Mickey murmured, echoing her thoughts. "Don't really belong here anymore, do we?"

"It's been four... five years now. Bound to change anyone, even without the changing universes," Rose tried to justify.

"It's more than that, and you know it."

"Yeah," she said, sighing heavily. "It's more than that."

"'Everyone leaves home eventually,'" he quoted.

"Not usually quite this dramatic."

After a long pause Mickey asked, "so what do we do?"

"Mick," Rose said, sounding frustrated, "we spend all of our time trying to save the world. Do we really have the time and energy to take on the politics of poverty?"

"Er... I meant what do we do about the Sycorax, love," Mickey said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh." Rose glanced sheepishly up at the sky, still devoid of alien vessels. "Yeah, no idea."

"Bit like what you said last time, yeah?" Mickey said quietly. "Stuck on Earth, you're useless?"

"I'm not useless… well… a little useless."

"Right. So what happens next?"

"The ship will break atmo and it'll cause a sonic blast that'll blow out every window in London. Harriet'll get on TV and ask for the Doctor's help. We'll hide in the TARDIS who will get teleported to the ship. I'll try to save the world and fail. The Doctor will be revived by a cup of mum's tea. He'll push a big-red-button-that-should-never-be-pressed, and then he'll save the world in time for Christmas tea."

Mickey nodded and sighed, wrapping an arm around her as they watched the people around them try in vain to talk their loved ones off the roof.

She felt the tremors an instant before they became the sonic wave. She could do nothing to save her ears, but she wrapped her arms around Sherlock to keep him from toppling off the edge of the roof. How many times would she have to keep this man from plunging to his death? Just then, every piece of glass in the city shattered as the Sycorax ship entered the atmosphere and came to rest over London.

"Why is it always London?" Mickey muttered, rubbing his ear with one hand and helping the woman next to them up off the ground with the other.

"What's going on?" the woman asked, clutching Mickey and staring at the ship in the sky. "Is that an alien? On Christmas?"

"What better time?" Rose asked quietly. She walked along the edge of the wall to be sure that all of the hypnotized people were still all right, as were their various protectors.

Harriet Jones would, shortly, take to the airwaves and beg for the Doctor's help. Rose glanced down to the alley beside the building they were on and, sure enough, there sat the TARDIS, waiting for her ill Time Lord. Rose smirked slightly to remember that the ill Time Lord had only required a cup of tea to recover, not that anyone had known it at the time. What could have been avoided if they had?

Rose returned to Mickey and Sherlock where the former had calmed the woman from before and the later continued to stare blankly into space and refuse to respond to stimulus. She sat down with her back to the cement lip on which the apparent jumpers were standing. She knew they had about half an hour before the Doctor pushed the ominous-red-button-that-should-never-be-pushed and freed everyone from the aliens' control and all she could do was wait. Jack was probably out there somewhere, but she didn't think there was time to find him (and there was a chance he was standing on a rooftop, unresponsive anyway). She wondered if there were a way to stop Torchwood destroying the ship, but that would require the TARDIS computers, and she couldn't do it anyway. Torchwood would show their hand, Harriet Jones would be deposed by the Doctor, and Rose could do nothing.

On this day the first time around, she had told her mother that, without the Doctor, stuck on Earth, she was useless. She felt just as impotent now as she had that time as well. She thought, if she could get Sherlock off the roof, that jumping back to their universe would snap him out of it, but they were surrounded by people and anything else even remotely alien would probably cause a panic at this point, and god knew what would happen if these people panicked. Someone could get pushed off the roof. It was a bit of a terrifying thought.

Mickey sank beside her. "What now, boss?"

"We wait for the Doctor to save the world. Like we always do."

"Nah," Mickey said. "These days we save the world on our own."

Rose leaned her head on his arm.

_Sherlock was trapped inside his own head. Every muscle in his body- even his eyes- was out of his control. He could not choose what to see, how to move, even how quickly to breathe, but his mind was still his own._

_He jerked into motion, brushing past Rose. He tried to call out to her, tell her what was happening, but found that his mouth was sealed. He could not move save for his legs, which directed him toward the nearest building. He had a vague sense that he wanted the roof, he wanted the edge of the roof, and he might want to jump off the roof (though this last was more easily dismissed). He heard Rose and Mickey talking about blood types- A-positive, which was his own. They seemed unsurprised at his behaviour, though they kept close to him._

_He ascended the stairs with Rose and Mickey continuing to follow him, joking. He couldn't believe that they were joking. It was then that he noticed that he was not the only person climbing the stairs like a zombie- he was surrounded by people who were being followed by worried loved ones. It clicked then- something about blood-type must have happened on this day the first time around. And, from Mickey and Rose's reaction, it should not be fatal. That was a somewhat comforting thought, though the sensation of not being in control of himself remained unsettling._

"_You haven't been in control of yourself for months," Mycroft sneered. "A flutter of eyelashes and you're being lead along like a pig to slaughter. And for what? She'll leave you in the end, you know. Think of it logically, Sherlock. What can you offer her? Naught but London with the occasional foray into the world. He will offer her the stars again. All of time and space and why would she choose you? Why would she ever choose you?"_

"_She loves Sherlock," Mickey stated, his face in a grim line. _

"_She has never said the words. She, of all people should know the power of the saying."_

"_But sometimes you know, even without saying," John argued._

_Before Sherlock's eyes was Rose. Rose as she ran, hand-in-hand with him. Rose eating chips. Rose waking up, tousle-haired. Rose laughing. Rose blushing as he looked at her. Rose rising above him, gloriously naked. Rose spinning in his arms as they danced. Rose's mouth moving over his. Rose's heartbeat under his ear as they lay together. Rose's fingers in his hair. His key and his world hung on a chain that lived over her heart._

_It would need saying one day, but he knew without the words._

"_They are important words," Rose said. "They shouldn't be said for the first time in fear, or in the heat of passion, or because you want to know what the other person will say. They should be said because it's everything that you feel inside and if you don't say them, you'll go mad. We've spent too much time afraid, Sherlock. When we aren't, then we can say the words."_

_Sherlock felt Rose's arms go around him as the Earth seemed to tremble, and then everything was pain and noise and horror for an instant. Sherlock felt himself rock but Rose's arms held him steady on the edge of the building. Her hands brushed over him in a way that might have lit him on fire were his body his own._

"_Where is your control, brother-mine?"_

"_I hardly think it's your concern, Mycroft."_

"_You're losing your focus, Sherlock. Look at you. Helpless. Depending on a woman."_

"_Not a woman, Mycroft. Rose. I would put all of my faith in her. Now butt out, brother-mine."_

"_We wait for the Doctor to save the world, like we always do," Rose said to Mickey in the real world. The pair of them were seated together below his feet and behind his back. They were keeping their voices low to avoid scaring their neighbours, but he could hear them if he strained his ears._

"_Nah. These days we save the world on our own." They were silent for a long moment before Mickey spoke again. "You all right, babe?"_

_Sherlock might have laughed. Mickey had asked him the same thing._

"_I'm always all right."_

"_I'm not Sherlock, Rose. I know what that means."_

_Sherlock was surprised. Did that phrase have some deeper meaning? He would have to investigate._

_Rose sighed audibly. "I'm scared, Mick. I'm scared that we won't make it in time and the entire multiverse will be destroyed. I'm scared we will make it in time and it'll be destroyed anyway because the Doctor can't fix it."_

"_You remember what he said up on that ship?" Mickey asked. "Don't doubt him. He always comes through in the end."_

"_Except when he doesn't."_

"_Don't do that. That's not all you're scared of."_

"_I'm going to hurt one of them. Unless the Doctor has moved on, I'm going to hurt one of them, and I don't know which it will be. Or they'll hurt each other."_

"_Or they'll hurt you."_

"_No, that's not..."_

"_Rose." Mickey's voice brooked no argument. "Tug-of-war is hardest on the rope. You love them both."_

"_Desperately."_

_Sherlock's heart leaped, even as his stomach twisted. She loved _both_of them desperately?_

"_You're only one person, and you've got the biggest heart of anyone I know. You'd never hurt either of them intentionally. The heart chooses its own slaves and all that. You'll do what's best when the time comes."_

"_Doesn't stop me being afraid."_

"_It wouldn't."_

_The two old friends were silent for a time and Sherlock retreated into his mind. Rose loved him._

"_She loves the Doctor as well," Mycroft saw fit to remind him._

"_She has loved the Doctor since she was practically a child," John argued. "If she loves you like she loves him after less than a year, she loves you dearly."_

"_She is using you to fill a void. Love. What does she know of love? What do you?" Mycroft dismissed._

"_What do you?" Rose asked._

"_Always an eye for women who can get the better of you, haven't you, brother?"_

"_An eye for a woman who can see him for the brilliant mind he is," Rose shot._

"_No," Sherlock interrupted. He could tell the Rose in his mind more than he could tell the Rose from his bed, though he should tell the real Rose these things someday. "I have an eye for a lovely form and a pretty face, but also a mind attuned to the impossible, eyes that can see the good in me, and a heart with light to brighten my darkness. It's you, Rose Tyler. Only ever you."_

"_Soul of a poet," Mycroft muttered._

"_Mind of a philosopher," Rose said with a grin._

Sherlock had a sudden, mad desire to jump from the roof, which seemed to jolt his entire system and suddenly, his body was his own again and the shock of it nearly sent him tumbling over the edge of the building, but Rose and Mickey were both holding onto his coat and tugged him back quickly.

"You okay?" Rose asked, looking up at him with her earnest, golden eyes.

Sherlock glanced around and saw that none of the other potential jumpers seemed to know how they had come to be on the roof. Only he had a memory of it, which might explain why Mickey and Rose had spoken as freely as they had.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Come on, let's get somewhere... else," Rose said, glancing around.

People were weeping and holding one another and being generally sentimental. Sherlock was in full agreement that they should leave. Coming to terms with his own emotions was one thing, but Sherlock was still uncomfortable with open displays of sentiment from others. Rose's tendency to hold his hand or touch him in public still, occasionally, gave him pause, though some primitive, possessive part of him liked the public acknowledgement that she was his.

"Come on then, let's get off the roof," Rose said, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the steps.

When they got to the ground, however, she did a careful glance around. "Mum's still around somewhere. Mick and I are on the ship, but she got left behind. Can't be seen," she explained when Sherlock gave her a strange look.

Once the coast was declared clear, they ran for a place of relative safety- the alley way that hid them from where the Doctor usually parked the TARDIS. Once they got there, Rose turned to Sherlock and looked carefully into his eyes.

"You all right?" she asked. "Do you remember anything?"

"No," he said- too quickly, he could see when her eyes took on a suspicious cast. "What happened?" he asked, trying to deflect.

"The Sycorax," Mickey began, pointing to the ship hanging in the sky, "used a sample of A-positive blood to control approximately 1/3 of the population of Earth to convince the government to turn the planet over to them."

"The Doctor says that you can't hypnotize a person to death, though, so no one would have actually jumped, and when he tried to force them to they woke up." Rose was still looking at him suspiciously, but did not seem likely to question him.

Sherlock nodded. "So…" he tried to think of what someone would ask who hadn't heard their conversation, "what now?"

"Our options are pretty limited. The TARDIS is in orbit, and we know this isn't the right time because we're here, so we could go find the Captain..."

"Not a good idea, really," Rose said, glancing around. "The longer we're here, the weaker we make this point in time. I'm starting to worry about all this jumping we keep doing into our own timelines."

Mickey nodded at her and continued, "or we go home and try again."

"Sounds like option B is the winner," Sherlock quipped.

Rose glanced around again and bit her lip then nodded. Something was wrong, Sherlock could tell, but he had a feeling that she would not discuss it.

They were gone in a flash of light.


	22. Visiting Home

**I've been debating whether to explain this unsolicited or wait for someone to ask. I have, however, decided that some explanation is due you all.**

**There is a method to my madness. These jumps are not random. Not even a little bit. As I mentioned in _Stars Will Fall_, Rose, Mickey and Sherlock are tied to the Earth and the TARDIS. They are following her (the one that is tied to the key that Rose has, so none of the pre-war TARDIS, nor the post-regeneration TARDIS of S5) through time in a linear progression.**

**That means that they started as far back as she ever went (approximately 70 AD, Pompeii), and are following her forward through time. It's not linear for the TARDIS, but it is from a human perspective. I've called this a season 1-4 revisit, since it is not a re-write. For the most part, the Doctor Who canon is not being touched save in some very small ways.**

**For those of you who don't know, the title of this piece reflects that. _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_ is a play that follows two minor characters from _Hamlet_ as they wander about and get into trouble (until they die in the course of _Hamlet_) while the actual story of _Hamlet_ happens in the background. In this instance, we have three characters who are bumping around, getting into trouble and doing their best not to let the universe collapse in the background of Doctor Who seasons 1-4.**

**Let me know if that makes any sense.**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

They arrived back in Cardiff to find the entire science team waiting for them.

"No, no, no!" Rose cried upon seeing them. "You can't ground us now!"

"We're not here to ground you," Tosh said, raising a placating hand. "We've got a bit of tech we've been working on, actually."

Rose looked less worried and more interested. "What kind of tech? You know I won't carry anything…"

"Lethal," Dr. Freeman finished her sentence with an air of humour. "We know. This is safety stuff though, not weapons."

The three dimension-travellers gathered round to look at what they had.

"They're return switches," Dorothy explained, handing out a large, yellow button to each of them. "Not like the one you have that connects to the cannon, this is fully independent. It can get you back here and nowhere else. It doesn't need the TARDIS to guide it like the original return switch. It's independent of the cannon."

Rose and Mickey frowned at the devices that they held. "These are the old dimension hoppers that we made after the Cybermen," Mickey said, looking at the scientists.

"Well… yeah, mostly," Tosh said, sheepishly.

Arthur was more serious. "The walls between the universes have gotten weak again, so they're working again. We've made some safety modifications to them, but yeah, they're basically the same." He gave them a long look before continuing. "The last time these things worked, it was nearly the end. The world was falling apart. I think… it may be the same now."

Rose nodded, soberly. "It is. We're running out of time. No more hesitations, no more waiting. I'm sorry, everyone, but the safety of the universe comes before our personal safety or well-being. That goes for all of us, but Mickey, Sherlock and me in particular."

Rose met the eyes of the scientists as well as her fellow travellers and saw the fear and apprehension in every eye.

~?~?~?~?~

They landed in a park beneath the bright, hot sun to the sounds of the TARDIS wheezing away. Sarah Jane stood, K9 at her side, staring at them in shock.

"Rose?" she whispered, glancing back to where the TARDIS had just dematerialized. "But you were… Mickey?"

"Hullo, Sarah Jane," Rose said quietly.

"You're…" Sarah glanced back to where the TARDIS had been again. "You're older."

"Miss Tyler is seven years, five months and 15 days older than the Miss Tyler who left with the Doctor," K9 droned in his electronic voice.

"So does that mean…" Sarah moved her eyes to Sherlock at last. "Oh, Doctor, not again."

She took a step toward Sherlock, who instinctively took a step back. Sarah frowned then, and continued to look him over.

"Not the Doctor then," she said. "Where is he? And who are you?"

"No, I'm most certainly not the Doctor," he said sharply. "My name is-"

"Sarah Jane!" Rose cried, interrupting Sherlock before he could get his name out. "You know we can't tell you anything, it's the future. Your future."

Sarah pursed her lips for a moment. She could still see the way the Doctor had looked at Rose- as though she were everything. She knew that they were doomed- Rose was human, and transient and so very small compared to the Time Lord, but the younger version of this woman had promised to stay with the Doctor, and Sarah Jane had believed her. "Yes, all right," she said, slowly. She looked between Sherlock and Rose for a long moment and her brow furrowed. Whatever was between these two was deep. It was elemental. It was even more than what she had seen between the Doctor and Rose, and Sarah Jane didn't know what the Doctor must think. "Rose…" Her voice was worried.

"I know what you're thinking, and it's not that. I promise. I'll tell you the whole story, if I can, when I can, just please believe that I would never do anything to hurt the Doctor. You must know that."

For a long time, the two women looked at each other- two women who had both deeply loved the same man, and who had both seen through him. The last time they had looked at each other like this, it was Sarah Jane who had known what was coming for Rose- not exactly, but in its basic form. Now it was the younger woman who knew more, whose eyes held pain and heartache and untold knowledge. Sarah could not begrudge Rose whatever it was that had taken her from the Doctor- be it love or life or the Doctor himself.

"I will find him, Sarah," Rose said, softly. "Everything depends on it. I can't tell you more than that."

Sarah Jane nodded slowly. "All right, but... be careful, Rose."

"I will." Rose looked at the older woman for a long moment, biting her lower lip. "There's one more thing though... when the ghosts come? Don't trust them, Sarah. Stay as far away from them as you can, please?"

"Ghosts?"

Rose shook her head. "You'll know when they arrive. I promise."

"Then I'll do my best."

"What is that thing?" Sherlock asked, shattering the tension that had stacked to breaking-point. He was looking at K9 with an expression that said the he could not decide whether to be curious or horrified.

"K-9 Mark IV, companion to the Doctor and to Mistress Sarah Jane," the tin dog declared. If it were possible for its computerized voice to sound both patronizing and exasperated, it would have done so.

"That's Sarah Jane's dog, and you'll not say anything unkind about him," Mickey said with false sternness.

"But what is it?"

"Artificial intelligence companion construct. Mark I created by Professor Marius in the year 5000 based on destroyed Mark II model. K-9 is a paradox. Do you require any further information?"

"Wait, your first iteration was constructed based on your second iteration, which was constructed based on your first iteration?" Sherlock was frowning at the little robot dog and ignoring the snickers of his companions.

"Affirmative."

"That's enough to make your head spin," Rose murmured to Sarah Jane and Mickey who both laughed out loud at Sherlock then.

Sherlock looked up, glaring at the three of them. Rose swallowed down her laugh and reached over to pat his arm.

"Sorry, love," she said, easily.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, they both froze. Neither of them were inclined to pet names, preferring to use their given names over any affectations (sweetheart, darling, dear, babe, or the like). Neither had ever used the word "love" toward the other in any context.

Mickey noticed the sudden tension between the two and had a good idea where it came from. The pair of them were both a bit too much like the Doctor, and he couldn't help but hope that they moved beyond that once the universe was safe again.

"We should go," he announced, effectively breaking the tension between Rose and Sherlock. He extended a hand to Sarah Jane. "It was fantastic to see you again, Ms. Smith."

"You as well, Mr. Smith," she said with a gentle smile, taking his hand. "Being the Smith on the TARDIS did you good."

"Yeah, it really did," he said with a grin.

"Goodbye Sarah Jane," Rose said, walking up to the older woman and giving her a hug. "Please take care of yourself. I'll see you again, if I can."

"Now, don't make promises you can't keep, Rose," Sarah said, squeezing her back. "It's a bad habit you should not pick up from the Doctor."

Rose leaned back and looked Sarah Jane in the eyes. "I promise, if I can, I will see you again. I'll tell you what happened to us since we left you, and I'll tell you everything I can about the Doctor and about him." With this last she nodded toward Sherlock.

"All right then," Sarah said with a smile. "You be careful, Rose."

"I never really learned how to do that, but for you, I'll try." Rose knelt down to K9. "You take care of Sarah Jane as well, you got that, Tin Dog?"

"Affirmative!"

"Good."

She rose and took her place between Mickey and Sherlock. With a final wave at Sarah Jane, she pressed their return switch and they found themselves back in Cardiff.

~?~?~?~?~

There were several stops in London. Sherlock learned that the Doctor (the one with the hair and pinstripes) had brought Rose home regularly to see Jackie and had, over the course of the year, become an honorary member of the Tyler family.

There was a short trip where the Doctor stayed behind in the TARDIS while Rose walked, stiffly, up to her mother's door and collapsed into the older woman's arms in tears.

"That's right after you left us, Mick," the older Rose whispered as they watched.

Sherlock watched the alien in the Police Box, who had not re-entered after seeing his young companion off. He'd watched her walk up the stairs and watched the reunion between the two women with an expression of guilt and pain writ across his handsome features.

There had been another stop outside of a warehouse in London from whence issued a number of inhuman growls and screams. Rose's younger self had rushed past them carrying a blue bucket and so intent that she very clearly did not even see them.

"Wrong bucket," Rose muttered, and they had gone off.

They landed with some regularity on the corner of the Powell Estates with which Sherlock was becoming remarkably familiar. Every time Mickey and Rose would shake their heads and move on with a flash of light and a buzz of ozone.

Once they landed around the corner from where an argument was happening with a rather disgusting green creature.

"Doctor," Rose asked, hesitantly, "is it me or is he a bit… Slitheen?"

"Not from Raxacoricofallapatorius, are you?" the tall, thin man in pinstripes asked the green alien.

"No! I am not the swine! I spit on them. I was born on their twin planet."

"Really? What's the twin planet of Raxacoricofallapatorius?"

"How does he always get that out?" Sherlock wondered and was silenced by a sharp elbow to the ribs from Rose.

"Clom."

"Clom?"

"Clom. Yes. And I will return there victorious, whilst I possess your travelling machine."

"We really ought to go," Rose whispered as Mickey and Sherlock watched the exchange between the two aliens with interest. "Nothing more to see here except… well… some pretty horrible things actually. Come on." She grabbed Sherlock's hand and Mickey's elbow and pulled them away to a place from which they could safely leave.

There were a few more stops in London, either outside of Rose's mother's building in the Powell Estates, or some other piece of the city (Sherlock noted that there was usually a chippy within sight of the TARDIS when they landed), but always outside.

Until the day they landed in the archives of Canary Wharf in the midst of the war.


	23. Falling

**As ever, Doctor Who and Sherlock are not mine. Please enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

Sherlock's blood froze in his veins. Before them was a small army of Cybermen in a pitched battle against the pepper-pots he'd seen in 1930 New York.

Sherlock had been in London for the Cyberman invasion in his own world. It had been before he met John. He'd been fresh out of his latest (and last, he swore) stint in rehab and was investigating Cybus and Lumic at Mycroft's behest (he'd always abhorred those ear-pod things anyway and had stubbornly held onto his hand-held phone). He'd have avoided Mycroft's request, but something had been happening to his homeless network and he was already investigating that when Mycroft had gotten in touch with him. His brother's contacts had gotten him much deeper into Cybus than he could have gone on his own, so Sherlock had chosen not to complain, for a change- which fact was not overlooked by his brother.

Sherlock had avoided the Preachers, determining rather quickly that they were idiots, but he had been very impressed with the Gemini transmissions and had kept up with them carefully. Finally, just as Sherlock felt quite certain that he was reaching the heart of the matter, the Cybermen had been released on the world. Sherlock had been caught and dragged to the machines to be Cyberized when every Cyberman had died screaming, the memories of which still haunted his nightmares.

Now his old nightmares and new ones had fuzed into a horror of unknown proportions. There was the smell of ozone and the electronic screams that were so much more horrifying for being emotionless. There were declarations of superiority and silent deaths as the Cybermen fell. Any human caught in the crossfire was struck down without prejudice.

Then, without warning, a rush of wind seemed to sweep through and the Cybermen and Daleks alike were pulled in the same direction. It took a moment, however, for Sherlock to realize that he was being pulled after them as well. He grabbed a doorframe as he was swept through.

"No," Rose screamed, and he could see that she was holding onto the wall as best she could and Mickey had grabbed the side of the TARDIS to keep himself in place. In the instant that he looked around, Sherlock could see that nothing but themselves, the Daleks and the Cybermen was being affected by the wind.

"Use your hopper, Sherlock," Rose screamed at him. "Please, do it now, it's pulling us into the void!"

Sherlock let go of the doorframe with one hand and tried to dig in the flapping pocket of his long, blue coat. The wind was pulling his feet out from under him, and he couldn't seem to get a grip on his pocket. He looked up to find Mickey gone. His grip had been firmest and he'd managed to get his return disc from his pocket and go.

"Please Sherlock, you have to go!" Rose was screaming at him. He could see her struggling to keep her feet under herself as well, her grip on the wall was slipping. He could also see that she had her own return button in hand already.

"Go, Rose, save yourself!" he shouted to her.

"Not 'till you've gone. Dammit Sherlock stop wasting time!"

Sherlock frowned and re-adjusted his grip on the doorframe, making certain that he could stay in place with only one hand. He plunged the other into the pocket of his coat and, this time he pulled out the return button. As he pressed the switch, he saw Rose's hands slip from their hold on the wall, he heard her scream, and everything went black.

* * *

***Author finds a cave to hide in***


	24. Separated

**What I did yesterday was cruel, and I offer a thousand apologies. You all are so lovely not to storm my house and pee in my mailbox, so thank you.**

**I'll get around to responding to your comments today... Like I said, yesterday I was hiding in my cave from the explosion.**

* * *

The landing with the dimension-hoppers was rougher than the landing with the cannon. Sherlock had an instant to reflect on that fact between landing and having the wind knocked out of him by the wall into which he was thrust by inertia. He coughed, but pulled himself together quickly.

"Rose?" he called and, receiving no answer, his voice became panicked. "Where's Rose?"

"She hasn't come back through yet," Mickey said. "What happened?"

"She lost her grip." Sherlock was shouting; he was starting to panic. "She fell just as I went." He picked up the yellow button with which he had gotten back and pressed it. It did nothing

"It's a one-way switch," Dr. Freeman explained. His face had drained of colour, as had Mickey's when Sherlock had said that Rose had slipped.

"We have to get back. Fire up the cannon, we'll go that way then."

"Sherlock, without the key we can't guide it. We could end up in any universe, at any time." Mickey looked hopeless, and Sherlock could feel the panic draining out of him to be replaced with icy despair.

With a sudden pop and crackle, Rose appeared and toppled over onto the ground with a groan.

"ROSE!" all three men cried in chorus.

Sherlock was the first to reach her, crashing to his knees at her side and running his hands over her to check her for injuries. It wasn't until Mickey's pointed cough that he realized that his touches were extremely familiar- brushing from neck and shoulders, down her chest, and over her hips and legs with impunity born of both detachment and familiarity.

The censure was cemented when Rose herself grunted out, "buy me a drink first," before groaning and turning onto her side toward him.

"Oh Rose," Sherlock whispered and, finally having convinced himself that she was uninjured, he gathered her into his arms and held her to his chest.

"'Mall right. 'Mfine," she muttered, but her actions gave lie to her words. Though normally she might have pulled away, stood, and taken command again, she merely leaned into his embrace, rested her head against his shoulder and allowed him to comfort her.

"I thought I'd lost you," he muttered, again and again, into her hair. "I saw you fall."

"Rose, what happened?"

Sherlock had a moment to register that Mickey's voice was as scared as ever he'd heard it when Rose finally began to stir in his arms as though to move away from him. For an instant, his instincts screamed not to let her go- he could protect her when he held her, but when she pushed away from his chest, his arms fell back to his sides and he released her.

"I did fall," she said, moving out of Sherlock's lap and leaving him bereft. "But I hit a wall. Not being an alien robot, I didn't crash through it and it gave me the extra moment to use the hopper. Those things aren't exactly gentle, are they?" she asked, trying to infuse some humour into the moment, though it fell flat with the men surrounding her. "Sorry," she added, seeing the bleak looks on all three faces. "Is there anything Rory might be able to give me for pain? I got slammed around a bit, feel like I've been in a tumble dryer, actually."

Sherlock's hands twitched in a desire to examine her more closely, but he had a feeling it would not be welcome. Were he in Rose's position, he would not want his partner hovering over him, treating him like he was weak.

Rose finally pushed herself from the floor and Sherlock's clever eyes saw that she favoured her left side- her right must have been what had hit the wall. She had no broken bones or dislocated joints, but his examinations would not have told him of deep-tissue bruising, and the way she was moving indicated that was exactly what was happening to her. The way she was limping said that there was no way Rory would approve her jumping again that day, and probably not the following day either unless he gave her something strong enough to dull the pain, but that was almost guaranteed to put her straight to sleep.

"I'll go get him," Arthur said, and rushed from the room.

Rose started to limp after him, in the direction of the med bay. Mickey wrapped an arm around her waist to help her walk as Sherlock pushed himself from the floor as well.

Rose hissed in pain as soon as Mickey touched her. "Don't," she pushed out through gritted teeth. "Just… let me do it."

Mickey had removed his arm immediately she'd let loose her sound of pain. He nodded, but remained at her side in case she needed anything. Sherlock joined her at her other side after a moment and, so flanked, she made her way toward the med-bay slowly. Sherlock watched every step, reading her injuries from her gait and wishing to just scoop her into his arms in an attempt to remove the grimace of pain from her face. He did not, however, knowing that even touching her would hurt, and knowing her need to prove that she was capable.

Halfway to the med bay, Rory met them.

"What did you do, Rose?"

She let out a weary chuckle. "Nearly fell into the void again. Getting to be a habit for me, you know?"

Rory glared at her. Rose glanced to the side to see that Mickey looked worried and Sherlock was hidden behind his usual mask.

"Tough crowd," she muttered. "Look, I had to be sure my team was out first. It's my responsibility as team leader, right? I lost my grip, got tossed around a bit, and finally managed to get back. Don't tell me you'd have done different, Dr. Stewart, because I know it's a lie."

Rory and Mickey both sighed because she was right.

"What is it you call yourself?" Rory asked heavily.

"Jeopardy-friendly," Mickey supplied.

"Set new records," Rose said with a smile that made Mickey and Rory roll their eyes. Sherlock found that he couldn't find any humour in the situation.

"So, Doctor," Rose said with a determined smile on her face, "can you give me anything that can get me back out in the field?"

"Not without 12 hours of sleep, no."

Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him, then he noticed that Rose did not look defeated. If anything, she looked more stubborn.

"What did the papers say this morning?" she asked.

Sherlock was surprised at the non-sequitur, but Rory seemed to understand and sighed heavily.

"It's getting worse. People are panicking."

"How long do we have?"

Again, the doctor sighed. "Six weeks, max."

"I can't afford 12 hours, Rory."

Rory glared at her and huffed through his nose. "I hate when you're right about this sort of thing, because it's always at your own expense."

"You should be used to it by now, I'm almost always right," Rose said with a smile.

Rory shook his head, took her hand and lead her away.

"Wait," Sherlock said, stopping them both. "What are you going to give her?" The only think that he could think that would stop the kind of pain Rose was obviously in was morphia, and she couldn't have that and go back to the field- it was too dangerous.

"Oh, you know," Rose said with a smile, "something alien. Want to see?"

He did, in fact. His intellectual curiosity was piqued by the idea of "something alien," but he was also feeling protective. Watching Rose pulled away from him- fearing that he would lose her- somehow caused everything that had been locked behind the door where he kept his emotions to burst out. Sherlock was restless and twitchy and wanted to laugh and cry and run and scream all at once. He was trying desperately to keep himself under control and to force his emotions back into their proper places, but at that exact moment, he did not think he could handle allowing Rose out of his sight. He felt like he was teetering on an edge, and on one side was control and on the other was madness and Rose's presence (as it always had) kept him balanced.

"Yes. You know me. I love something alien."

Rose looked at him for a long moment, as though seeing him for the first time. Sherlock supposed she might be- she had been explaining herself and in severe pain since she arrived back in the second universe.

"Are you all right?" she asked, a furrow appearing between her brows.

The only words that seemed to come to Sherlock's lips were those he'd heard from hers half a dozen times or so. "I'm always all right."

Sherlock was shocked to see Rose's eyes go flat with the statement and without another word she turned to continue limping toward the med bay. He caught up with her in just a few strides (she was walking far slower than her usual brisk pace) but she did not look at him, and she did not explain.

Once they made their way painfully slowly to the med bay, Rory directed Rose to the bed and sent a sharp look at Sherlock.

"You help her undress," he said at the older-looking, younger man. "I'll need a step-stool to do it, and she hasn't got the range of motion to do it herself." This last was said in a louder voice over Rose's protests. "Better that you help than stand there glaring daggers at me while I do it."

Sherlock moved toward Rose as she started to struggle out of her top. Rory had been right, however, and she didn't have the range of motion on her right side to get out of it easily. She did not look at Sherlock as he helped her out of her jacket. He moved to her front and, before he removed her top, he put his fingertips on her chin and tilted her head up to look him in the eye.

"What did I do? I honestly don't know."

Rose looked at him for a long moment, and then her eyes softened. She gave him a sheepish smile. "Nothing," she said, quietly. "Nothing that's your fault, anyway. Just... forgot myself for a bit, blame it on the pain I suppose."

"Please tell me?"

Rose sighed. "The Doctor used to tell me that he was 'always alright,' which meant that he was anything but alright. He only said it when he was upset but didn't want to talk about it. I do it sometimes too, and Mickey always calls me on it. Used to drive me mad when the Doctor did it."

Sherlock felt his jaw clench. He hated when she looked at him and saw the Doctor, but he had to forgive her this time because she was right- the pain would have compromised her mental faculties. Also, were he honest...

"I may have been using the phrase the same way the Doctor did, if the truth were told."

Rose raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yes. Seeing you fall it... frightened me. I was having... trouble. Controlling my emotions. I'm sorry."

"You know that one of the benefits of relationships is that you don't always have to control your emotions completely, right? Halve the burden and double the joy?"

Sherlock frowned at her. "What on earth are you talking about? That doesn't make any sense at all."

"Oi," came a youthful voice from across the room that caused both of them to jump. "I thought I told you to get her undressed so we could get her fixed up. No more talking you two. The universe is at stake."

Rose blushed and Sherlock busied himself with the buttons of her shirt. He ruthlessly squashed the part of his mind that bemoaned the fact that he could not take his time over the undressing. He needed to be clinical and uninvolved. He needed to be a doctor. Not like Rose's Doctor, but like John. Sherlock wondered if he could reach that kind of gentleness and goodness in himself but, looking into Rose's eyes and seeing the pain cross her face when he brushed over someplace that ached, he thought that he could find it for her.

After Sherlock helped her out of both her shirt and trousers, Rory returned with a device approximately the size of a standard paperback book.

"Medical regenerator," he explained before Sherlock could ask. "Got it from a Time Agent who came to take a peek at the Rift a few years back. They become all the rage in the 40th century or so. It'll heal the muscles so there won't be any bruising but," this next was directed at Rose, "it will dehydrate you. I want you to take an hour with fluids. You can afford an hour."

Rose looked slightly mutinous, but Rory waylaid her response with a threat. "If you won't agree to an hour with some water and tea, then I'll knock you out and put you on an IV."

"You're evil, do you know that?" Rose asked.

Rory grinned as he began running the regenerator over her right side. "I think it's the body, actually. I'm far nastier as a 12-year-old than I ever was at 40. It's the impulses of youth with the canniness of age."

"Excuses, excuses. You're torturing the Hippocratic Oath and your patients too."

"Not all my patients. Just stubborn blonds who don't seem to know what's best for them."

"Got a lot of those, have you?"

"You'd be shocked."

Sherlock, strangely, found their banter soothing. They both seemed to believe that Rose was all right, and that reassurance allowed him to store away his fear and possessiveness back into the room in which it belonged, behind the locked door that kept him safe.

Half an hour later, Rory declared himself satisfied and Rose hopped off the table with a vigour of which she would not have been capable before.

"Water, Rose," Rory warned as she bent for her trousers and shirt.

"Going to take a shower first," she said, rolling her shoulders, even as she pulled her shirt back on. "That thing leaves your muscles stiff. Can I take a paracetamol?"

"Have two, and try to get some sleep tonight, all right?"

"I'll do my best," she said with a cheeky grin.

~?~?~?~?~

An hour and a half later, Rose was re-dressed in a burgundy top under her blue leather jacket over black trousers. Mickey carried his large, dangerous-looking gun (encountering the Daleks again had reminded all of them of the importance of being armed). Sherlock still had the smaller but no less powerful weapon under his jacket.

They made the jump and, in an instant, while the darkness still surrounded them, they could all tell that something had gone wrong. They were buffeted in a way that had never happened before.

In a bright flash of light, Mickey landed in an underground bunker next to the TARDIS without Rose and Sherlock. The dampness of the walls and the oppressive smell of water pollution told Mickey that he was either on or under the Thames. The doors of the TARDIS creaked open, at his touch and there, shining on the console, was a key.

A weary voice, unaccompanied by an image, spoke. "Find my Wolf, Soldier-boy. Save her, and save her companion, so that they can save the Doctor, and he can save us all."

Mickey snatched up the TARDIS key from the console. He knew what he had to do- return to Pete's World, give them the key to direct the cannon, and find Rose, who had somehow gotten lost. The TARDIS knew that she could be found, so Mickey would find her.

_The TARDIS heaved a wistful sigh. Her Tin Dog had grown so, and he would save her Wolf and her mate. She had looked into her Wolf's heart once and seen an endless well of love. For the Doctor, for the universe, and for the life that gave her the freedom to grow._

_The TARDIS had known, even then, that her Wolf could not stay with the Doctor. She could see all of it- time and space and the universe, and she knew that there was a melody over the waters that would come for the Doctor's hearts and for his life. The Doctor was the Champion of Time and would have to face his fate when he met it, but sweet Arkytior was a human. A brilliant, blazing, golden human, and the stuff of legends, but a human, and finite. Were she to stay with the Doctor until the end of her days, she could never reach her full potential, but with another human- another legend- her name could be written across the stars._

_The TARDIS had searched the universes and found him. A mate for her Wolf. A lonely, brilliant, damaged human- nearly as clever in only a few decades as her Doctor was in hundreds of years, and wouldn't the Doctor hate to know that? The timeline that had the pair of them together was a glittering, glowing, beautiful thing, and so the TARDIS had taken them to that universe, causing the walls to weaken. She had allowed her Wolf to be trapped. She had waited, unable to see her Wolf's timeline across the void, but she had known that, if the universes were to be preserved, her Wolf would have to come back, and she had. And she had come with her mate in tow._

_A pair of legends, adored by time. There were still choices to make. No timeline was set in stone, but the TARDIS was pleased to know that her Wolf was happy, was strong, and was well-loved._

~?~?~?~?~

Rose and Sherlock were hurled back into the universe in a dingy alleyway, not pulled, as was normal, but dropped.

"Something is very, very wrong," Rose said, looking around. "Where is the TARDIS? We're nowhere near her."

Suddenly, Rose fell to her knees, head in her hand and a low, keening cry of pain issuing from her mouth.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, kneeling beside her.

"The TARDIS is dying," Rose whispered. She pulled herself to her feet and took off at a run for a large group of people at the end of the street that was lit by flashing blue and red lights.

"What happened? What did they find?" she cried out as she ran, Sherlock on her heels.

A redheaded woman who was walking in their direction, away from the action, stopped.

"Sorry," Rose turned toward the redhead, absolutely frantic now, "did they find someone?"

"I don't know. Um, bloke called the Doctor or… or something." The woman sounded very vague.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked.

The woman turned to him, and his eyes widened in recognition. Rose did not seem to have noticed, but this was the woman whose form the TARDIS had taken in Pompeii.

"They took him away. He's dead."

Rose turned to the woman and, like Sherlock, her eyes went wide. The redhead from the TARDIS. The one who had travelled with the Doctor. But she couldn't travel with the Doctor if he was dead.

"I'm sorry, did you know him?" the woman asked. "I mean, they didn't say his name. It could be any Doctor."

Rose turned to her companions and, for the first time, noticed that Mickey was missing. Her eyes went wide at Sherlock who shook his head.

Rose turned again and watched the ambulance drive away.

"I came so far," she murmured. She hadn't saved him. The universe would end now. It felt like it was ending already.

"It could be anyone," the woman said, drawing Rose's attention back to her.

Rose turned and looked at her closely. "What's your name?"

"Donna, and you?" She looked at both of them.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but Rose interrupted. "Oh we're just passing by. We shouldn't even be here. This is wrong. This is wrong," she was speaking to Sherlock now. "This is so wrong."

Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking at Donna. Something was wrong. It wasn't something he could see when he looked at her straight-on, but the sort of thing that one caught out of the corner of one's eye. Something was on her back.

"Sorry," he said, frowning, trying to catch another glimpse of the thing on her back. "What was it? Donna what?"

"Why do you keep looking at my back?" Donna asked, beginning to sound scared and angry.

"I'm not," Sherlock said, forcing his eyes to her face. Rose had now caught sight of it and was also looking at the woman's back.

"Yes you are, you keep looking behind me." Donna turned to Rose and caught her at it too. "You're doing it now. What is it? What's there?" She turned on the spot to try to look at her own back. "Did someone put something on my back?"

She turned back and the two people were gone.

~?~?~?~?~

Mickey arrived back in the beta universe, a coldly determined expression on his face.

"Where's Rose and Sherlock?" Gwen asked when he appeared.

"I don't know," he said grimly, "but I have to go looking for them."

"Mickey," Gwen said, nervously, "it won't work without Rose's TARDIS key."

Mickey held up the key he'd picked up from the console room of the TARDIS in the other universe. Gwen's eyes widened.

"All right then," she said, softly.


	25. Goodbye Love

**A chapter in which some questions are answered, but not very many.**

**As always, I love getting reviews! I answer all of them unless you review as a guest, in which case I can't answer, unfortunately.**

**Kisses, hugs, and lots of love to you all!**

* * *

Rose and Sherlock had not, in point of fact, actually disappeared. Rose had been hoping that Donna would look away- they needed to get away quickly from this woman who was too curious by half. Too clever by half as well, Rose thought. It was why the Doctor had chosen her, she had no doubt, and yet the woman they had just met didn't know the Doctor. And now she never would as the Doctor was, apparently, dead.

But he couldn't be, Rose thought forcefully. He would regenerate, of course he would. Rose pulled Sherlock behind a nearby car until Donna left.

"Why are we hiding from her," Sherlock hissed in her ear. "And why can't we say our names."

"You can't say your name because she'll recognize it, I can't say mine because time is wrong, and I don't want to make it worse. Where's Mickey?"

"He didn't land with us," Sherlock said.

Rose blanched. "That's bad," she croaked. "If he's stuck in the vortex… I don't know what could happen to him. Or… the void." She swayed on the spot and Sherlock wrapped an arm around her waist.

"Rose," he hissed sharply. "This is no time to lose your head. Stay with me."

Rose's eyes cleared as temper flashed in them. Sherlock would accept her anger if it meant that she wasn't panicking and he didn't have to carry her from where she had fallen to the ground.

"Do we need to go back and find Mickey or do we need to look in on the Doctor?"

"We…" Rose swallowed and forced herself to prioritize. The universe first, Mickey second, she told herself, even if it made her stomach roil. She begged his forgiveness in her mind and continued. "We check on the Doctor, come on."

Donna had gone so Rose marched up to one of the men in pseudo-military attire talking into his radio.

"You're with UNIT, aren't you?"

The man turned to find two people- a woman in her mid-to-late twenties, and a man in his early thirties standing before him where, before, there had been no one. He looked them over and dismissed them immediately- he saw their expensive clothes, but not their military boots, he missed the bulge of a weapon under Sherlock's jacket and Rose's defensive stance.

In short, he saw nothing.

"I don't know what you're talking about, UNIT," the young man said.

"United Intelligence Taskforce, though the 'intelligence' might be a stretch," Rose bit off. "UNIT works with aliens and alien threats to Earth and, here in 2007, you've probably been in competition with Torchwood for a fair few years, but now you're pretty much the only name in the game now, right?"

"How do you..." The boy was stunned.

"What happened to the Doctor?"

"What do you know about the Doctor?"

"I know how he takes his tea in the morning and his favourite asteroid in the 35th century to get banana milkshakes and his shoe size in Chuck Taylor plimsolls, so you might say he and I have met."

"You're a companion?"

"I was, now tell me what happened to him."

"He's dead."

"You don't understand. He can't be. He doesn't just... die like that."

The young man looked at her for a long moment. "He didn't regenerate. He's... he's actually dead."

Rose stood in silence for a very long moment, trying to decide what to do. As she had been talking, Sherlock had stepped away from her side. He now returned and placed something into her hand- a silver tube with a blue light at the end. Rose looked at it for a very long time. The Doctor had never, if he could avoid it, let her use the screwdriver, yet here it was- he'd left it behind.

That lonely little device, without the long-fingered, manly, hairy hand that always held it, cemented the Doctor's death in her mind as nothing else could have done.

She looked up at the soldier, purpose returned to her eyes. "Where is the TARDIS?"

"I... I can't tell..."

"Right, top secret no doubt," Rose said sharply. In an instant and before the young man's eyes she transformed from a girl who was an adult by only the thinnest margins of technicality, to a sharp-eyed soldier, glaring down a subordinate.

Without intention, the young soldier subtly straightened his back and squared his shoulders.

"Fine, you won't tell me where the TARDIS is. I want you to contact a woman, she works for the Times as a reporter and her name is Sarah Jane Smith." Rose noted the young man's expression shift subtly. Her time with Sherlock had not been wasted. "Ah, you know her. Good. Tell her the Doctor is dead and bring her to your headquarters or wherever it is you're keeping him. She deserves to say goodbye. She can vouch for me. Also you need to get in contact with a man named Jack Harkness. He's around somewhere, but I don't know where or what he's doing..."

"Jack Harkness of Torchwood?" the soldier asked, in spite of himself.

Rose's mind reeled. Jack? With Torchwood? It was too much coincidence to be a different Jack but... it was so soon after Canary Wharf and everything that had happened there... could he possibly have been involved?

Rose forced herself to rally. She needed Jack regardless, thought they might have to have a long, serious talk at some point. He deserved to know about the Doctor, however, and Rose could not deny him his goodbye no matter his mistakes.

"Probably," she said. "Get him here as well. There are probably others, but I don't know them. Sarah might. I need to speak with the pair of them, and then I need the TARDIS."

"I..." the young soldier was about to object but he found that he could not. The woman before him had authority, yes. She was obviously a soldier. But she had power as well. Something more intrinsic sat behind her eyes and it was that power that he could not refuse.

"Yes ma'am," he finally said.

"What's your name?" Rose asked, realizing that she didn't know.

"Ross Jenkins," he said, giving her a half smile.

"Thank you, Ross," she said and allowed him to walk away.

Sherlock moved to her side. He had stood back, allowed her to take the lead and had passively observed. It was not his preferred method. His mind itched as he fought the urge to interrupt her as she spoke to the soldier (Jenkins, as she had determined). It was not because she was conducting the investigation incorrectly or that he could do it better, simply that he was not used to abandoning control.

He was learning to do a great many things at Rose Tyler's tutelage.

"What now?" he asked her softly.

He watched her stiffen slightly. He could not predict emotional changes in most people, but in Rose, like John, he was learning. He knew that she was steeling herself to say something that either he or she did not like. He had an odd intuition that it would be he who was unhappy.

"You need to go back to the other universe and get them working on saving Mickey."

He had been right. In his most logical of minds, he knew that one of them should start looking for Mickey but he was loath to leave her. The woman wouldn't even carry a gun, and he wasn't fully convinced that he would be able to come back if he left her.

"I'd rather not."

She turned to look at him, and he could tell that she was spoiling for a fight, but the flame of her anger died upon seeing his face.

"I'd rather not," he repeated, "but your logic is sound. We need to help Mickey as soon as possible, and Sarah Jane and Jack don't know me well enough."

Rose nodded. She looked apprehensive, but determined. She took the dimension cannon's return switch from the pocket of her jacket and held it out to him. "Take it," she said.

"I can't," Sherlock said, staring at the device in her hand as though it were poisonous. "How will you get back?"

"I have my dimension hopper. You have to take it; the cannon won't work without a TARDIS key, so take it."

Sherlock closed a hand over the device and, without looking at it, slid it into his pocket. There was one question he had to ask her, and he was sore afraid.

"What if..." He swallowed and started again. "What if we can't get back to you? What if you're stuck here?"

"It was always a possibility," she said, matter-of-factly. "There was always the potential that we'd get stuck on the wrong side of the Void. I accepted that risk."

Sherlock watched her face for even a hint- the slightest twitch or tremor that would tell him that she was as affected as he. He wanted to know if she was scared or if, as he feared in his darkest hours, trapped on the other side of the Void from him was precisely where she wanted to be.

Her face gave away no secrets, however.

Rose met Sherlock's eyes and prayed to gods she didn't believe in and ones she had met that every iota of her fear, her desperation and her need were not shining from her eyes like a searchlight. She did not want him to go. She had an intuition that, if he went, he would never make it back to her- they had never landed in the same place twice, and the TARDIS was dying just as surely as the Doctor had, she knew. Time and the Universe were mourning their champion, and Rose felt like she could hear them and she did not want to face it alone.

Were it not for Mickey, she might have clung to Sherlock and the stolid comfort that he represented. She had to be sure that Mickey was well, however, and that shored up her failing resolve as nothing else could.

Sherlock's face gave nothing away- he seemed as indifferent to going as to staying, and Rose's heart wept. She knew that he was capable of keeping huge waves of emotion locked up behind an expressionless mask, but she wished for even a tiny sign or signal that said that he was as tormented as she.

"Go on then," she said softly, nodding at him.

Sherlock stood for a long moment looking at her out of those eyes that swirled with stars. There was a play of the muscles just beneath the pale skin of his jaw and his soft lips thinned almost imperceptibly. Rose saw it, despite the subtlety of the change and she knew that he was screaming inside.

Finally, he opened his mouth. "Be well then, Ro…" he stopped before saying her name, remembering that she had said not to, "be well then, love."

It was the first time that he had used that particular word in reference to her and that word on his tongue was enough to tear down the tenuous wall that was holding back her emotions. Tears that she could no longer control slid down her face.

Behind the panic that Sherlock always felt at Rose's tears was surge of remorse and a smaller one of pleasure. His instinct was to comfort, so he cupped her face in his hands, swiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, love," he murmured, looking into her eyes.

"Shut up, don't be an idiot," Rose choked out, and pulled him down into a kiss.

Sherlock had never been kissed like this. Could he separate it from the situation, it would have been bliss- Rose's tongue mapped his mouth as though she were a cartographer tasked to draw it in precise detail. He knew, however, that it was because she thought it was the last, and he could not help but respond in kind in case she was right. His arms wrapped her to him, hands just a bit rough as they wanted to curl into fists as he raged at the universe for pulling them apart. She seemed not to mind and clutched him just as close. They could not be closer unless they were naked. They could not be closer unless he were inside of her.

No time for that now, of course, so Sherlock tightened his arms just that tiny bit more. He could barely breathe and was sure that she was having trouble as well, but she did not protest, just tightened the hand that had plunged into his hair and the arm around his waist as well.

Finally, when stars burst behind his eyes from lack of oxygen, Sherlock allowed them to disengage. He pulled back and looked at her. Tears still streamed down her face, her lipstick was smudged and her eye-makeup smeared and she was beautiful.

He withdrew his pocket handkerchief and swiped it under her eyes, gathering up the dark makeup on the white cloth. When her face was clean, he cupped her cheeks in both hands, tilting her head so that she could not help but meet his eyes.

"I will find you again," he said. "Believe that. I will find you."

Rose nodded. When he spoke like that, she could not help but believe that there was no power in the universe that could stop Sherlock Holmes getting what he wanted- not Time, Space, Gods nor Demons. Rose could put her faith in him.

Sherlock nodded back and, with a hot, hard kiss on her mouth, he stepped back and withdrew the dimension cannon return switch from his pocket.

"Goodbye, love," he said softly.

"Goodbye, love," she answered. He gave the very barest ghost of a smile and pressed the button in his hand.

Nothing happened.


	26. Smith and Jones

**I was out very late last night being DD for my Sister-In-Law's 35th birthday party at the Karaoke Bar (for the record, slaughtering country music is only tolerable for four hours if there's a massive amount of alcohol in your system), so I'm too exhausted to say anything clever today.**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

Mickey landed on a street corner just outside of the Royal Hope Hospital beside the battered blue box that was his guide.

He rested a hand on the rough wood and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hear something, anything from the old girl. Rose had always described it as a hum or a purr in the back of one's mind that, if one relaxed the mind, could be interpreted.

Mickey sighed. There was nothing there except the barest of vibrations under his hand. He considered, briefly, entering the box with his new key, but discarded the idea. He had no idea where the Doctor was, and he and the team back in the second universe's Cardiff had agreed that he could not approach the Doctor until the stars were actively going out. Only then could they afford to risk the timelines. Mickey had objected, saying that the Doctor was needed to save Rose, but they had insisted- Rose had always said that the universe came before any one of them, so the Doctor was Mickey's goal, not Rose.

Mickey glanced around. No newsagents on this street. He knew, however, from the many times he'd picked up Martha at the hospital during her residency, that Royal Hope had a little shop in the lobby that sold newspapers. He could check the date there.

Walking in the front doors of Royal Hope, Mickey felt a frisson of electricity run down his spine. He dismissed it as part of the flood of memories that swept over him as he stepped into the lobby. Martha worked at St. Bart's now that she was fully qualified, but she had been at Royal Hope for a long time. A quiet voice in the back of his mind wondered if she had a duplicate in this world, and how dangerous it would be to look for her. It had been months since he'd seen his own Martha, and the diamond and platinum ring that lived in his desk drawer in Cardiff was waiting for the day that he knew the universe was secure, a symbol of his hope.

He couldn't wait for his forever with her.

For now, though, he had to ensure that forever was longer than just a few weeks. Mickey was glad that Gwen and Tosh had talked him out of the plasma cannon he'd been carrying. He was on his own now, no Rose to talk him out of trouble if someone happened to notice something they shouldn't. In the crowded hospital lobby someone would have been certain to notice that massive weapon and raise a fuss. He now carried a blaster like Sherlock's that fit in a holster under his coat and was practically invisible when he moved.

Mickey's heart clenched with guilt at the thought of Sherlock. It had not been until he'd stood in the circle of mirrors for the dimension cannon that Mickey's mind had even acknowledged that it was not just Rose he was looking for, but Sherlock as well. Rose had been his best friend since they were tiny, but Sherlock had become his friend as well over the last several months. Mickey knew that he would have liked the man simply for making Rose happy, but the two of them had managed a sort of odd friendship- more comfortable than Mickey's relationship with the Doctor, though still peculiar in its way- and he'd felt horrible that he had not thought of Sherlock immediately when he'd begun planning his rescue.

It hardly mattered, Mickey reminded himself, there was too much to accomplish to be eaten by guilt. He made his way across the bustling lobby to the shop and snagged a paper from the newsstand to glance over the front page. Two-thousand-eight, only a few days before the election, he saw. Some bloke called Saxon was the projected winner. Mickey couldn't remember a Saxon in their world- one of the differences, he supposed. Despite the zeppelins in the sky, there were surprisingly few, though the things that were different were always a bit jarring. Mickey turned the pages quickly, scanning for anything about stars to catch his eye, but it looked like he was too early again. He set the paper back in the basket and, ignoring the glare of the cashier at his "read without paying" behaviour, he cut back across the lobby. When he reached the big glass doors, however, he noticed it was raining and he sighed. He could probably afford a few minutes to see if it passed, but more than five and he'd have to make a run for it.

As Mickey stood by the window, watching for the rain to let up, he noticed something that he had missed before- the plasma coil at the corner of the building. It looked like a standard piece of electrical equipment, but Mickey recognized it. His eyes narrowed as he remembered the frisson of electricity as he'd walked in the door. Everything clicked after a moment- plasma coils that were clearly running, the rain- it was a hydroscoop. No wonder the TARDIS had been parked outside.

Mickey turned into the crowded lobby. "Oi!" he shouted, but he was too late. The entire building shook and jolted and every person who had been standing was thrown to the ground.

As soon as things settled, Mickey was on his feet again, checking the people nearest to him who had been jostled around. He made his way out and, eventually, bumped into a young man in a laboratory coat doing the same thing.

"Oh!" the other man cried out as he glanced over the woman that Mickey was checking over.

"Everyone on that half of the room is all right, mate," Mickey said, waving a hand toward the area he'd already covered. "There's a few bumps and bruises but nothing too bad."

"Er… thanks," the young doctor said in surprise. "Are you a doctor then?"

"Nah," Mickey said with a small smile. "Soldier, actually. I can do basic triage and some in-field first aid and I'm CPR certified, but I figured, this being a hospital, there'd be a real doctor pretty close by if something came up I didn't know how to handle."

"Right… obviously. So… do you know what happened here?"

"Couldn't tell you, mate," Mickey said with a tight smile. He actually could, but the young man was unlikely to understand or believe him if he tried. "Everyone on your half of the room all right?"

"What? Oh, yeah." The young doctor was obviously flustered and Mickey refrained from rolling his eyes. "Like you, a few bumps and bruises, and one broken leg that will probably have to be re-set, but nothing life-threatening."

"Good to hear. So how about we take a look then, see what happened."

"A look?"

Mickey smiled slightly. "Yeah. Lots of big windows, might as well see where we are."

"What do you mean 'where we are'?"

Mickey ignored this and walked over to the windows with the doctor (resident? He seemed young) trailing along behind him.

"Looks like the moon to me," Mickey said with a frown.

"The moon? But… that's impossible."

"Mmm, don't much like the word 'impossible,' me."

He could tell that the young doctor was looking at him like he was crazy but Mickey was trying to work everything out in his head. The moon was neutral territory. What could possibly be in the hospital that would require it to be pulled to neutral territory. Mickey wasn't sure, but he did know that it was certain to be very bad.

When the rockets landed, he knew he'd been right.

"Judoon," he muttered. The doctor didn't seem to notice as he was watching the approaching black-suited aliens marching up to the door.

Mickey turned and glanced around the room. He'd fight to the death to be sure that no one in this room got hurt (even if it meant the universe was as the mercy of the Daleks), but the Judoon weren't indiscriminate killers. They were mercenary and stupid, but not killers. He'd have to see what they wanted. His soldiers' eyes swept the room and caught on a pair of people watching from the railing around the mezzanine. His heart stopped as his eyes lit on Martha, just as she'd been when he'd met her. He physically stopped himself from rushing toward her because, beside her, was a man that Mickey could not approach- not yet.

Mickey frowned. The Doctor looked… different. He was wearing a blue suit rather than brown, and a plain tie rather than patterned, but this was only the most obvious change, there were subtler ones as well. His jaw seemed more tense, his movements tighter. He still seemed to be bursting with energy, but it was angry energy, not the manic joy that he'd seemed to exude in Rose's presence.

Mickey could see that the Time Lord was mourning.

He was also turning an eye to the patients in the lobby, so Mickey moved, nonchalantly, to a corner where he would be out of the Doctor's line of sight. He watched his doctor friend (Oliver, he introduced himself to the giant, space-suited rhinoceros) deal with the aliens, and Mickey was fairly impressed. The nervous young man managed to hold his own with the thugs… up until he begged for his own life. Mickey smiled at that, but it looked like all the Judoon were going to do was catalogue all of the humans in their search for something non-human. That meant that the Doctor might be in a bit of trouble, but no more than usual, and Mickey figured the centuries-old alien could probably out-manoeuvre the rather thick alien mercenaries.

He considered his options. He could find a quiet closet and jump back to his own universe from there. There was some merit to that plan, namely that he would not accidentally run into the Doctor before he should.

He could stay and try to figure out what the Judoon were up to. He was pretty sure that the hospital had a fairly limited supply of oxygen, and though the Judoon were mindless and thorough, they were hardly quick. He had a feeling, however, that finding what the Judoon were looking for before they could find him was precisely what the Doctor was up to, so Mickey though that a poor choice.

He could stay in the lobby and help keep those people calm. The rest of the hospital had doctors and nurses to keep the sick safe, but in the lobby it was largely visitors, guests and family members with a small number of patients. There was no one of any great authority except old Oliver, and there were a few people glaring at him for losing his head with the Judoon. Mickey thought he could do some good there, he'd just have to keep a wary eye out for the Doctor in case he came through.

Mickey glanced up and saw that Martha and the Doctor were gone so he returned to the main part of the room and got himself catalogued as human. Once the Judoon were finished with the lobby and had moved to the first floor, Mickey looked around at the nervous milling people.

He climbed up on a chair, which caught that attention of several people around him, and then he raised his voice. "Um... Hi." He grinned and waved at everyone. "Could I make a quick suggestion? It's just... I think that if everyone had a seat and, you know, didn't walk around or panic or anything, that we'd be using a bit less oxygen, right? And, you know, being on the moon and everything, oxygen is at a bit of a premium, right?"

"We're going to run out of air?" a woman shrieked from behind him.

"That's not what he said," a man groused at her.

"No," Mickey lied easily, "we're not going to run out of air. See, 'cause most of us down here are healthy, right? We've got good lungs. But there's a lot of people up there," he pointed towards the stairs up to the main hospital, "that have bad lungs."

"They've got oxygen tanks back there though," someone cried.

"Yeah," Mickey agreed, "they do. But that's not unlimited, you know. So, personally, I'd rather the oxygen stayed back there with the sick people. But if someone in here starts panicking or hyperventilating, then they're going to have to have oxygen, right? And that means less oxygen for the patients, yeah?"

There was a murmur of agreement.

"So all I'm suggesting is that everyone sits, moves as little as possible, and stays calm. Seems to me the Ju- giant rhinoceros things are looking for something that isn't human. Probably something alien, yeah? And we don't really want something dangerous and alien running around the hospital anyway, do we?"

The response was generally negative.

"Right, so let's just sit tight and let them do their job, yeah?"

"Who died and made you king?" a red-faced man challenged.

"Not a soul," Mickey said innocently. "You got a better idea?"

"I don't think we need _any_ aliens in this hospital. Let's get those... rhino-things out."

There were a few voices of assent, a few of dissent, and most everyone just stayed quiet and watched to see what Mickey would do.

"Good idea, mate," Mickey said with a smile, surprising the other man. "Problem is that I'd bet that either those rhinos are the ones that brought us to the moon, or they can get us back home. So... if we get rid of them, how are we gonna get back?"

The man stood staring at Mickey, mouth hanging open.

"Right then, you work on that, and the rest of us will sit quiet, moving as little as possible to preserve oxygen so we're ready once you figure it out."

When Mickey dropped into his seat, the elderly woman who was in the chair next to him patted his shoulder, chuckling. "Nicely done, my dear," she said cheerfully.

Half an hour later, Mickey was walking around the lobby. The old woman who had been next to him had fallen asleep, and he checked on her breathing regularly. He was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded himself, and some of the less physically fit visitors were straining to breathe or, like his seat-mate, had fallen asleep.

Mickey sat himself next to the man who had challenged him.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" the older man asked.

"If we don't get off the moon soon, yeah. I'm afraid we are," Mickey said.

"Sorry I yelled at you. You were right."

"Sorry I made you look like an idiot."

The man snorted. "Did that to myself, really. Ah well, no harm done. You have a girl waiting for you back on terra-firma?"

Mickey smiled sadly. "Not really, no."

"Got a bloke?"

Mickey laughed a bit at that. "Nope, not got one of them either. Don't really have anyone waiting for me back there, I'm afraid."

"You find someone then, son," the older man said, taking a laboured breath and patting Mickey on the shoulder. "'Cause it's not worth the adventures if you don't have someone to come home to." With that wise pronouncement, he fell asleep.

Mickey sighed, and missed Martha desperately.

Ten minutes later, nearly everyone except Mickey and two or three others in the lobby had passed out. Mickey could feel his vision tunnelling- blackness around the edges crowding in- when the Judoon platoon marched out the front door. Mickey rallied and followed to watch them enter their ships and fly off.

"Come on then," he muttered, watching out the window. "Send us home you ugly bastards. You can't leave us here."

Again, the black began to pull in around him, and he was gasping when he saw the rain that represented hope. Just before he blacked out, he hit his return button to go back to his universe where his friends were waiting for him.


	27. Dying

**A chapter in which a cliffhanger is... actually not particularly resolved. I'd apologize, but I'm not terribly sorry.**

* * *

Sarah and Jack watched Rose from across the cold autopsy table on which was laid the body of the Doctor. Sherlock had excused himself some ten minutes prior to give them all privacy, but not a word had been said since he'd left.

Sarah and Jack had been shown into the room where the Doctor's body was being held. Sarah Jane had recognized him immediately.

"Doctor," she had cried, brokenly, and rushed to his side.

Jack had hesitated, looking at the unfamiliar man on the table, when a very familiar voice had spoken. "It's him, Jack."

He'd turned to see her standing there, eyes on the body that had once been the Doctor.

"Ro..." he'd begun, but a flash of her eyes had cut him off.

"Don't say my name," she'd warned.

"Why not?" Sarah had asked, looking up from the Doctor's corpse.

"It's a very long story, and I'll tell you but... well... I thought you both deserved to say goodbye to him." She turned to Jack again. "That is the Doctor, I promise. The second one. Guess you never found him."

"Not the second," Sarah Jane corrected absently, looking back at the Doctor's face. "I knew two before him, and the Brigadier knew one before my first Doctor and four after my second."

"So, at a minimum, the Ninth Doctor?" Jack suggested.

"S'pose so," Rose said, continuing to watch Sarah Jane stroking the Doctor's still face. It unsettled her, that stillness- he had never been that way in life. Not in this body, anyway. The dark-haired, big-eared version had had the capacity for stillness, but not the skinny, big-haired model.

Jack had gone to the Doctor's side, and Sherlock had gone to Rose's. He'd laid a hand on her shoulder- not holding her in place, merely a show of support, and she had been grateful.

"I didn't ever find him," Jack said, voice breaking just slightly.

"I'm so sorry, Jack," Rose said softly. He didn't answer her, just stared down at the Doctor's body with a blank expression on his handsome features.

Sherlock had excused himself then to leave the three companions to their mourning. The older pair had turned to Rose, expecting her to explain now that the not-quite-a-stranger was away, but she remained silent, eyes on the Doctor's form, mind miles (and universes) away.

The dimension cannon had not worked. Neither had the hoppers. She and Sherlock were stranded here, both of them and one of the only beings in the multiverse that she thought might be able to save them was dead on the cold autopsy table in front of her. The other was crying a mourning song in Rose's head still, and Rose could feel her dying, though she was hanging on, waiting for Rose.

UNIT wasn't allowing Rose anywhere near the TARDIS yet though, so the old girl was clinging on.

"When are you?" Jack asked, finally breaking the silence. "It's just that… I shouldn't tell you, but… if you can change it, maybe…"

"You saw an announcement of my death at Canary Wharf, right?" Rose asked quietly.

Both Jack and Sarah nodded dumbly at her.

"I wondered…" Sarah began, and Jack looked at her sharply. The two of them didn't know each other at all, and there was some measure of distrust between them that Rose hoped would be resolved quickly. Jack didn't seem the sort to dislike someone like Sarah Jane for long. "You told me to beware of the ghosts so I wondered if maybe… maybe all wasn't as it seemed."

"What happened?" Jack asked, and his eyes were cold toward Rose as well. "Tell us the truth, we deserve to know."

"You're right, you do," Rose said. From her pocket she withdrew the sonic screwdriver that Sherlock had picked up from the street. Both Sarah Jane and Jack's eyes widened at the sight. Rose adjusted the setting and pointed it around the room, neutralizing any listening devices that UNIT might have on them. Then she shut it off.

"What do you know about multiverse theory and what Torchwood was doing with the ghosts, Jack?"

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock had been still for 45 minutes and was beginning to chafe at the enforced inaction. One of the soldiers (not Ross and he was too distracted to bother searching for names) brought him a cup of coffee approximately halfway through his vigil.

The young man had a cat, a girlfriend, and an addiction to an online video game, but Sherlock kept that to himself.

He was marginally intrigued by the location to which they had been brought. It was a manor house on the outskirts of London (one that reminded him of the house in which his own parents lived) whose buildings and grounds had been re-purposed to house a paramilitary organization. Sherlock tasted the coffee- it had been made from cheap beans in an expensive percolator (possibly even antique, to go with the house). Under the house, underground rooms had been dug and furnished, and it was there that Rose, the good Captain, and the Reporter stood overlooking the Doctor's body.

He had watched the soldiers raise an uproar when their listening devices had been shut off. Rose had told him what the Doctor's device (he still refused to call it a _screwdriver_ since she'd never known it to drive screws) was capable of and he was glad she'd had it. The soldiers had then tried to get into the morgue again and found the door deadlocked.

Sherlock had noted with detached interest that they had begun to look speculatively at him. He wondered if he would soon be used as a bargaining chip to bring Rose out of the room, but before more could be done than a few speculative looks shot his way and some mutinous murmuring, Rose, Sarah and Jack emerged from the morgue.

"We need to be taken to the TARDIS," Rose said. "And then we'll need a place for a pyre."

"A what?" one of the men asked, incredulous.

"A pyre," Rose repeated without emotion. She jerked her head back to the room and the shell inside of it. "That body you've got in there could alter the course of human history. It's not going into your lab, it's going to be burned. As it should be."

"Quite right too," came another voice, this one older and more authoritative.

Sarah, Jack, Rose and Sherlock all turned to the new arrival- an older man with white hair and moustaches and bearing that spoke plainly of a long military career.

"Brigadier," Sarah Jane said in a voice that was half warm affection and half awe.

"Ms. Smith," he said, inclining his head toward her. "Captain Harkness," he said to Jack, his eyes sparkling as Jack looked surprised that this man knew who he was. Next he turned to Rose and Sherlock. "I fear I haven't had the pleasure," he said and extended his hand to Rose.

"You can call me Bad Wolf," Rose said, taking his hand and giving him a smile.

"Can I?" The Brigadier raised his eyebrows in surprise. He turned to Sherlock. "Does that make you Little Red Riding Hood then?"

Rose snorted and Sherlock glared at both her and the smirking man before him. "Hardly. You can call me..." he hesitated for a moment.

Rose suddenly smiled. "Call him Sherlock Holmes," she said, meeting his eyes. "Like from the stories."

Sherlock's eyes widened as they met hers. Naturally no one on this universe would think of Sherlock Holmes as a real name- he was fictional. He and Rose shared a secret smile as the Brigadier shook his head at their antics.

"I'm Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, the Brigadier to my friends, and the Doctor has been one of my best friends since I was practically a lad."

"There was some debate, Brig," Sarah Jane piped up. "Can you tell us which Doctor that is?"

"According to my research and my own experience, that is the Tenth Doctor."

"We were close," Jack said with a ghost of his old smile.

Sarah Jane let out a weak chuckle and the Brigadier rolled his eyes. Sherlock's eyes were on Rose, however, who had suddenly gone pale and swayed on her feet. He stepped over and put an arm around her waist as she swayed a second time, more powerfully than before.

"Miss... Wolf?" the Brigadier stuttered.

"Brigadier Stewart," Rose said breathlessly, "I need to see the TARDIS. She's dying."

"Of course," he said and began to lead the way.

After a step or two, Sherlock realized something. "We can't leave that body unsupervised," he said sharply, stopping them all in their tracks.

The Brigadier looked offended. "Are you saying you don't trust my organization Mr... Holmes?"

"I am, yes," Sherlock said, as though pleased that the older man had caught on so quickly.

"I'll have you know, UNIT would never do anything untoward with the Doctor's body!"

"No?" Jack asked. "So UNIT has never found alien tech and just 'forgotten' to report it to the proper authorities?"

"By proper authorities, do you mean Torchwood, young man?" the Brigadier shot at Jack, which made that man (who was so much older than he looked) smile.

"Legally, they belonged to Torchwood."

"UNIT has the backing of the United Nations."

"UNIT hasn't been in with the UN since the '80s. You're independent now, which means that you should have turned anything you found over to Torchwood."

Sherlock glanced down at Rose who was still too pale. She met his eyes and shook her head, smiling wanly.

"Gentlemen," she cried, causing Jack and the Brigadier to turn to her. Jack looked contrite, seeing how pale she was, and the Brig looked surprised to be addressed so. "I am going to leave Sherlock here to watch the Doctor's body because I'm not sure I trust either of your organizations to do what is right in the case of an alien artifact that could improve or change the face of life as we know it. Too tempting for even the most honourable of organizations. Sarah Jane and I will go visit the TARDIS, if you will direct us, Brigadier, and you two can finish your conversation in private."

Both the Brigadier and Jack looked chastised, but Rose's tone brooked no argument. The Brig gave the two women directions to where he'd had the TARDIS put away, and Rose turned to hand the sonic screwdriver to Sherlock in addition to the blaster he pulled out from under his jacket.

"Do you really think that's necessary?" the Brigadier asked, eyes on Sherlock's weapon.

Sherlock smiled a shark's smile that would have made Mycroft proud. "I certainly hope not," he said and abandoned the field to lean insouciantly against the door to the room where the Doctor's shell lay.

Rose took Sarah Jane's elbow and steered her as far as she could, but the older woman ended up having to guide her the rest of the way. She seemed quite comfortable in the UNIT headquarters.

"You were with the Doctor when he worked here?" Rose asked.

"Oh yes, back when he was stranded on Earth by the Time Lords."

"They can do that?"

"Oh yes," Sarah said with a rueful smile. "Ro- Bad Wolf," she began tenuously, "tell me about your young man."

Rose snorted at the thought of Sherlock as a 'young man.' Though technically he was, he had an innate authority and sense of self that belonged to a much older man. He lacked the wisdom of even his true age sometimes, however, so he really seemed ageless. He was a bit like the Doctor that way, though he would hate to hear it.

"Sherlock..." Rose began, only to be cut off by Sarah's snort at what she perceived to be a _noms du guerre_, and Rose gave her a quelling look.

"You'll find the pseudonym suits him. He's highly observant, and smarter than almost any man you'll have ever met. I'd say 'any,' but you know the Doctor." Rose stopped for a moment, again realizing that the Doctor was dead. The idea didn't seem to be able to find a hold in her mind and kept slipping away, letting her slip into present-tense thought about him.

"An-anyway. He'll remind you of Sherlock Holmes, and he'll remind you of the Doctor."

"Is that why you fell in love with him?" Sarah asked sharply. "Because he reminds you of the Doctor?"

Rose sighed. She thought they were beyond this. "Yeah, I did, actually," Rose said wearily. "Because he's clever and brave and a bit rude, but even as clever as he is, he's impressed with what I'm capable of, and thinks I'm a match for him, and our lives are never boring. Yeah, he's got a lot of traits of the Doctor, but he's also got a flat, and parents, and he ages, and he forgets to call his mum on her birthday and goes to my little brother's footie games and, in all those little, domestic ways, he's human. So he's not the Doctor, and I know that, and I'm glad he's not. He's himself, okay?"

Sarah looked shocked. "I'm sorry Rose, you're right. That was unworthy."

Rose sighed. "I'm sorry I got upset, that wasn't fair either. It's a fair question, really."

"It's not, actually. But I'm happy for you, I really am."

"Thanks," Rose said.

They continued together until they reached the large, underground storeroom where the TARDIS had been left. Rose pulled out the dimension cannon return-switch that Sherlock had returned to her and removed the TARDIS key from it to open the door.

Inside the impossible space, the lights were dim- even dimmer than they usually were in the old coral interior.

With a groan a flickering shape came into being in front of Rose. Rather than the nearly life-like images she had shown them in Pompeii, this image reminded Rose of her leather-jacket-wearing Doctor's Emergency Programme 1 image- all warbly lines and blue-tint.

"Arkytior," the Doctor's granddaughter said in a fading voice. "And my lovely Stowaway. I haven't much time. Without the Doctor, I will die. Time is wrong."

"I know, TARDIS," Rose said, softly.

"It's not just the Doctor... or else, it's not that simple. Time has been thrown out of line by something small. Something..."

"I saw Donna when we first arrived, but she didn't know the Doctor."

"Donna," the TARIS said, musingly. "I don't know... but her name rings in the halls of Time." The young girl flickered worse for a moment before becoming clear again. "This is what I can do," she said, indicating the monitor on the console screen where a series of apparently random numbers were showing. "Coordinates. Follow them and you will get where you need to go, Arkytior."

"How do I follow them? I can't get back to the dimension cannon. My returns won't work."

"No," the TARDIS said with a sad smile. "They wouldn't. The Doctor is dead, which means that he cannot stop the stars going out. Your universe moves ahead of this one by a few years, so it's already happened there. That universe is no more."

Rose paled and swayed on the spot. Her mother and father and brother. Martha, Tosh, Molly, Gwen, Rory, Jake, John... even Mycroft. They were all dead.

"Fear not, my Wolf. This timeline is wrong, so very wrong. End it, fix it, and there will be hope again."

"I quite like hope," Rose breathed.

"What do we do, TARDIS?" Sarah Jane asked.

The TARDIS looked at her with a fond smile. "Oh my beautiful Stowaway. Asking the right questions. Build a device to cross time and space. Build me anew."

"That's impossible," Sarah Jane said. "You grew over a thousand years."

"Arkytior and her companion can do it. It is not unlike what she built before to come here. With those coordinates, you cannot go wrong."

The image flickered again and shifted to a woman with long blonde hair and a perfect cupid's bow of a mouth, to a young man with curly dark hair that made Sarah Jane gasp, to a tall, stately woman with a 60's bouffant hairstyle and then back to the pixie girl.

"I am so sorry, for both of you. The hardest part is yet to come. And I am sorry for Donna. She will die."

With that horrible pronouncement, the TARDIS voice interface vanished and the lights died. The only light that remained in that space was the coordinates that remained flashing on the monitor, and even they were beginning to fade.

Sarah Jane quickly withdrew a notebook and pen from her pocket and wrote down the numbers before they could dim entirely, and then returned to Rose's side on the grating of the console room.

"What now?" she asked the younger woman. She found that she felt only right turning to Rose for comfort and leadership, despite the woman being half her age.

"Sounds like we're going to build a dimension cannon. Should be an adventure, yeah?"


	28. Philia

**So the working titles of the next three chapters were, in order "Really mean things that I do to my characters," "Really stupid things that my characters do to themselves," and "The reason I love these characters even when they're stupid."**

**As ever, I'd very much like to thank the exquisite WhoLockGal for being my cheerleader, my idea engine, and my enabler as I write these things. I'd like to thank my own Hubby for putting up with me on a regular basis. And finally, I'd like to thank all of you who read, enjoy, favourite, follow, and, most especially, review. I love getting reviews and I love knowing that you're enjoying it!**

**So, without further ado, for your Fanfiction Friday pleasure, Really Mean Things That I Do To My Characters!**

* * *

For three months, Sherlock and Rose and the scientific team from UNIT worked on the dimension cannon again. After stealing out in the dark of night, building a pyre, and burning the final remains of the Doctor to be scattered to the winds, Jack returned to Cardiff. There he fulfilled the same role with the reduced force of Torchwood that Rose did in her home universe. The pair of them had had a long talk about Jack's culpability in Torchwood 1's actions at Canary Wharf, and though Jack had been only peripherally aware and had gone on record advising against messing with the hole in the universe and had been ignored, he still felt guilty about it, knowing that it had ripped Rose away from the Doctor.

Jack returned every few weeks and spoke by phone with Rose and the research team at UNIT about his ideas on the dimension cannon (which he kept calling a "massive vortex manipulator" and Sarah Jane called a "rudimentary TARDIS").

Sarah Jane lived in the area and would stop by at least once a week and often more. Frequently she would bring her teenage son, Luke, who seemed as comfortable at UNIT as Sarah Jane herself was. Rose found that she liked the boy who Sarah Jane had adopted shortly after the last time Rose had seen her. He was extremely clever, and even Sherlock had been impressed with him the first time he'd caught something that the adults missed.

Rose watched Luke and Sherlock interact and was struck with a wave of homesickness for her little brother. Tony was much younger than Luke, but watching the two of them interact reminded her of how Sherlock behaved around her brother. He craved the validation that children gave so easily (speaking their awe at his cleverness) and he was a natural teacher so that a curious-minded young person found themselves drawn to him, and Sherlock was able to be himself, but without the self-conscious sarcasm that he utilized around adults.

"He'd make a good father," Sarah Jane commented one day as Sherlock showed Luke some chemical concoction that he'd been working on that had little or nothing to do with the dimension cannon.

Sarah Jane had taken on the role of 'mother' to both Rose and Sherlock. At least once every second week she would pull them out of the laboratory and force them both into the sunlight. After months in Cardiff unable to go out because they were dead, wanted, or desperately trying to save the universe on a deadline, the idea of going out was foreign to both of them, but they were more than a year ahead of the expiring star phenomenon in the Prime universe and were of no interest to anyone so they could afford a day in the open on occasion.

"Not a father, no," Rose said, continuing to watch the two boys. "I think it would require too much attention for too long, fatherhood. He'd make an excellent uncle though."

"So you and he aren't… talking about children?"

"We haven't really talked about the future at all, if you want the truth," Rose said.

It was true. Rose and Sherlock shared their bed, their bread, and their laboratory table, but, despite the fact that skin slid over skin- mouth, lips, tongues and fingertips- nearly every night, despite the fact that they had both taken to calling each other 'love' in place of their given names, in spite of the fact that they were, for the first time in nearly six months, living a comparatively domestic life on the slow path, the future was never mentioned. It was because they both knew that the peace and tranquillity were a fiction, and that the universe was waiting to pull the rug out from under them.

The universe saw fit to remind them of the transience of the peace in April when the Royal Hope hospital was transported to the moon. Rose and Sherlock, outfitted by UNIT as supplementary troops, were on the scene when it returned, nearly every soul dead of asphyxiation. They entered the building with the others to assess the damage and catalogue the dead. The lone survivor, a young doctor named Oliver Morgenstern, explained that he had survived because a medical student named Martha Jones had given him the last tank of oxygen. He had pointed at a body in a lab coat laying on the ground some metres away and Rose had turned involuntarily to look.

There she laid, clearly dead, a woman that Rose had long known. They had been friends- close friends. They had spent their evenings together, had talked about men and clothes and work and nothing at all. Rose knew that, in another universe that she was determined to save, there was a diamond ring for this woman's left hand.

But Rose had not allowed herself to cry then. Nor as they made their way through the charnel house that had once been a hospital. The death was completely bloodless but it was everywhere- overwhelming and visceral. They moved through the hospital, floor by floor, finding identification for each body as they were able, and taking photographs when they were not.

In the paediatrics ward, Rose felt her strength slip, but she maintained control. In maternity it was even harder, and, after drawing blankets over two dozen bassinets, Rose feared that she would never sleep again without those tiny forms haunting her nightmares.

On the third floor, Rose broke. They entered the MRI room, Rose and Sherlock together, to find five figures- an elderly woman and two teenagers that Rose did not know and...

"Sarah Jane," Rose choked out. "Luke."

Without another word, Rose fled. She did not stop at the front doors of the hospital where Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart tried to stop her but kept running, blind with tears.

Sherlock remained his face a cold mask. He made no attempt to stop Rose or to explain her actions. He continued forward as though she had never been at his side at all. His eyes raced over Sarah Jane, young Luke, the girl and the boy who were with them and the old woman. It was at this last that he knelt and examined more closely. He paced the room, laid himself across the floor to look at wires and connections on the MRI machine, and finally he stood and dusted himself off. He had a short conversation with the UNIT soldier who had followed Rose and himself into the room, and then he walked away. He stripped off his UNIT-issue coat and threw it to the floor, speeding his step the closer he got to the door and freedom from the horrifying cloy of death.

He walked through the city that was slightly different from his own home. Had she climbed into a cab, he could not have followed her, but on foot he could do. He also had a feeling that he knew where she had gone, and needed only follow his own intuition.

Thirty minutes later, he found her where he'd expected- on a swing in the dilapidated old play park on the edge of the Powell Estate. He could see that she had not shed tears, but her eyes were dull, her mouth turned-down at the edges and her shoulders were rounded as though she were trying to curl into herself from the weight of her grief.

"Someone could recognize you here," Sherlock said by way of a greeting. She was technically supposed to be dead, but he thought, somehow, that the citizens of Peckham had stranger things to concern themselves with than the reappearance of one Rose Tyler.

"What difference does it make?" she asked dully.

Sherlock did not answer directly, but he sat on the swing next to her and began to speak. "They were heroes, Sarah Jane and Luke. The boy who survived, he said that they… the…"

"Judoon," Rose supplied.

"The Judoon were looking for something alien. UNIT says that that old woman was a plasmavore. Sounds like a vampire."

"Essentially, yes."

"She'd set the MRI machine to backfire and had increased the power such that it would have killed every person on this half of the globe. Sarah Jane and Luke and his friends stopped it. They saved all of us."

The two of them sat in silence for a very long time. After a few minutes, he looked over at Rose and saw silent tears sliding down her face. After a few minutes, she stood and began to walk. Sherlock caught up with her after only a moment and the two of them, side-by-side, walked through the city back to UNIT headquarters to return to saving the world.

~?~?~?~?~

Mickey landed with a flash and a sizzle in a small flat in which the TARDIS was parked. His eyes went wide as he took in the extremely familiar furnishings- he stood in the flat Martha had lived in during her university days, when they had first started dating.

Mickey recalled that the Doctor had called the companion in 1913 'Martha,' and that in 1930 the old man in Hooverville had said that the Doctor had been traveling with a 'negro girl.'

He shook his head with a half-laugh. "What is it with the Doctor and my girlfriends?" he wondered aloud. He glanced around and guessed the year was 2007, but he couldn't be sure. His own Martha had moved in with him as soon as she'd graduated, so it could be later for this Martha. He wandered into the living room and turned on the telly which was (as he'd known it would be) already tuned to the news.

Mickey watched distractedly for a few minutes while also looking around at a piece of his past. There was some sort of big scientific 'do happening. Some old man was climbing into a machine that looked decidedly futuristic and Mickey watched for a few minutes until he saw the Doctor run forward and unplug the machine. Mickey smiled slightly. The daft alien was there to save the old man from bad science, and it looked like the universe was still ticking if they were taking time to cover grown-up science fairs.

Mickey turned off the set and jumped back home.

~?~?~?~?~

"Wolfie, I need you to do something for me."

"I don't know, Jack. I'm not sure I can handle much of anything right now." Three days prior, Rose would have jumped on the chance to get out of the UNIT labs and do something for Torchwood or Jack, but only two days after Sarah Jane's death, she still felt wrung out and horrified.

"Please sweetheart? I wouldn't ask if I could do it myself."

Rose leaned back so that her head thunked against the wall. Sherlock glanced up from the blueprints he had been pouring over for hours and raised a single eyebrow.

"What is it?"

"There's this bloke up there in London by the name of Lazarus. He's been making some claims about his experiments that... well... they don't sound very wholesome."

"You think it's alien?" Rose asked. She hated the frisson of excitement that went down her spine at the idea of dealing with something alien, even though she knew she should be mourning Sarah Jane.

"No... not necessarily alien," Jack said, and Rose was disappointed. "It's just... call it an instinct for trouble. Would you go? It's tickets to a nice party. You can get dressed up and everything."

"A society event for what is probably a wild goose chase?"

"If I'm totally wrong, there's an open bar and the caterer is the best in London. Please, sweetheart?" Jack used his pleading voice- the one he had learned during their time with the Doctor could convince Rose to do almost anything.

"Ugh," she said, thumping her head against the wall again. "Fine. But you owe me dinner the next time you're in town."

"You know it, gorgeous. Bring that sexy man of yours and I'll show both of you the stars."

"In your dreams, Jack Harkness."

"Every night. Take him with you tonight, I'll get you both on the guest list and you can use the psychic paper for the invite."

"What will our names be?"

"He's Sherlock Holmes, right? Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?"

"If you must."

"I'm a romantic that way. Thanks, Wolfie. You're right, I owe you one."

When Rose hung up, Sherlock finally looked up from his plans again.

"You and I are going to a party on Jack's orders?"

"Well deduced. You're a right Sherlock Holmes, you are."

~?~?~?~?~

Rose glared at herself in the mirror and the over-dressed, over-made-up stranger that looked back at her. Why was anyone willing to go to a party tonight after the tragedy of Royal Hope? It felt tawdry and selfish.

She looked down at the conservative black dress that she had chosen. She was given the options of colours and had considered a lovely purple dress that she knew Sherlock would like, but she had chosen the black instead. It seemed wrong to wear something bright and bold with so many dead.

Rose chose a pair of black flats. She knew that, in spite of his jokes, Jack would not have asked this of her if he wasn't particularly worried and she refused to wear a pair of shoes that she could not run in at a moment's notice. She pulled her hair into a severe updo that would stay out of her way if things went wrong. She was wearing a plain gold band that had been loaned her by one of the women there at UNIT on the fourth finger of her left hand to give the impression of being properly Mrs. Holmes. Her silver chain with the key to Baker Street and the little Earth pendant that Sherlock had given her was covered by the high neck of the dress. Rose noted that she really should be wearing a necklace of some sort to finish off the outfit, but she didn't have anything. She had arrived in that universe with nothing but the clothes on her back (not the first time such a thing had happened to her, she thought wryly) and had cobbled together a basic wardrobe from cast-offs from the UNIT staff and a small amount of money (that the Brig said he was taking from the Doctor's account, which had still had wages being paid into it). She had not bothered with anything but the essentials and had no jewellery at all.

Rose shook her head. She didn't need to be beautiful or extraordinary. In fact, it would be better if she were just a bit plain and easy to overlook. She would cause no stir and would elicit no reaction, and that was better. She stood to leave the room, only to find Sherlock at the door.

"I… I have something for you," Sherlock said, looking nervous.

He was dressed in a slightly ill-fitting suit and Rose could see that he felt self-conscious in it. Neither of them commented on the fact and he held out a hand to her.

"What is it?" she asked, not taking it.

"It was on the TARDIS console when I went in there, but I think it's for you."

Rose took it and found that it was a delicate gold chain on which hung a cameo-style pendant. Rather than an ivory portrait, however, the pendant swirled with purples and reds in a lovely rendition of the Rose Nebula.

Rose smiled in spite of herself. "Sweet old thing," she murmured. The TARDIS was dying, and still she thought of little things for Rose. "Help me put it on?" she asked Sherlock.

He wordlessly stepped behind her and worked the little clasp on the chain to affix it around her neck. She turned to the mirror and saw that it was precisely what her outfit had needed. There was something arresting about seeing the TARDIS' gift about her neck, and Sherlock's hands on her shoulders, his left bearing a ring that matched hers. For no reason at all, her eyes filled with tears.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, worried. "Did I do something?"

Rose shook her head, knowing that if she tried to speak she would only sob. She held out her hand to Sherlock, who took it, only to thread it through his elbow. And thus, arm-in-arm they set off on an adventure.

~?~?~?~?~

The party wasn't as bad as Rose had anticipated. It was a more subdued gathering that it might have been had there not been such a recent tragedy. It was the topic of conversation on everyone's lips, and Rose even heard their host saying that the woman who had planned the party was not there for having lost a sister in the hospital.

The food was good (not as good as Jack had advertised, but she supposed she could forgive him that) and, to that point, nothing untoward had happened. They had, however, only been there for approximately half an hour.

Rose snagged a pair of hors d'oeuvres and made her way back to Sherlock who was frowning at their host- a man in his 70s with white hair and wandering eyes. Rose had had to flash the fake wedding band she was wearing for the night and cling to Sherlock's arm when they had been introduced to free herself of his lecherous advances.

"He's not going to try to cart me off again, Sherlock," she said, handing him a canapé.

"What?"

"You're glaring at Dr. Lazarus like he's done you a personal wrong."

"He looks familiar and I can't quite place why."

Now Rose was surprised- Sherlock's personal facial recognition was unsurpassed in her experience. He could recognize a person he'd seen only once, and frequently only in passing within a few moments. For him to feel that someone was familiar but not be able to place how was unprecedented. Rose looked at the old scientist and tried to tell if he reminded her of someone she knew. There might be something about the nose that was oddly familiar, but she couldn't be surer than that.

"I don't really know," she said softly.

Sherlock shook his head and looked like he was about to speak again when the lights dimmed and the man at whom they had both been staring took the stage. As he began speaking about changing what it meant to be human, Rose began to see what it was that might have set off Jack's instincts for trouble. There was something about the man besides his lecherous eye that made Rose's skin crawl.

When he climbed into his white, cylindrical device, Rose narrowed her eyes.

"That thing is going to kill him."

"Yes, it very well might."

Rose turned to look at him. "We can't just…" She stopped when she heard the sound of the machine start up. She turned to watch as it picked up speed and pitch until it appeared to be completely out of control.

"Sherlock," she whispered, but he was galvanized and had mounted the stage to examine the machinery there. After a few moments of fumbling, he found the power connection and disconnected it. The machine's whines died out and the silence felt oppressive.

Rose rushed to the stage as well. "Doctor Lazarus? Doctor?" she called, trying to find the entrance to the chamber which had slid closed.

Suddenly it whooshed open and out stepped…

"Mycroft," Sherlock breathed, looking at the man before him who was the image of his brother in the other universe.

"I beg your pardon?" Dr. Lazarus asked. The voice was Mycroft's but the accent wasn't.

Sherlock shook his head as though to clear it and spoke again. "I said 'my god.'"

"Yes," the Doctor said, and it was very much Mycroft's smile that he gave Sherlock. "It is rather extraordinary, is it not?" He then turned back to the audience and spread his arms, putting himself on display. Rose and Sherlock, on opposite sides of him stared with identical looks of incomprehension and shock.

After a short speech that neither Sherlock nor Rose listened do in their abject horror, Dr. Lazarus stepped down into the crowd that enveloped him. Rose crossed the stage to Sherlock.

"It's not him," she said first, "it's just a gingerbread house."

"What?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"It's something that looks good or sturdy or nourishing, but as soon as you get beneath the surface, it all falls in. It's a temptation with nothing holding it up."

"My brother is _not_ a temptation."

"No, but investigating the man who is wearing his face is. You forget how well I know you, Sherlock."

"So what do we do?" Sherlock asked, not acknowledging this last. "Leave?"

"Absolutely not. We need to investigate this because that technology is wrong. It's nearly ten centuries ahead of its time, and I want to know where Dr. Lazarus got it. But if you can't separate him from who he looks like, I'll do it alone."

Sherlock finally turned his attention to her, and his blue eyes were laser sharp. "I will do what needs to be done." His voice was a soft growl.

"Fine," Rose said, and glanced back into the room to catch sight of the man who looked like Mycroft Holmes. She saw him leaving the room with an old, wealthy-looking woman on his arm. "Let's follow them," Rose said, nodding toward the pair.

The pair of them set off across the buzzing banquet hall and into the main office complex. In that quiet area it was simple to follow the sounds of the two voices (one familiar and yet not, the other completely unknown) to the elevator banks. Their quarry had already boarded their elevator, so Rose and Sherlock watched the numbers rise until they determined where the pair of them had landed- on the top floor, it appeared.

Rose called an elevator for the pair of them as well.

"The penthouse will, undoubtedly, require a special code to get in," Sherlock said.

"Lucky I have the key," Rose said with a smile, withdrawing the sonic from her handbag.

Sherlock glared at the device, but said nothing. They rode the elevator up in silence. Sherlock had noted that it was not the sort to signal when it stopped, so, save for the soft swish of the doors, they should be able to enter the penthouse office in near silence. When they reached the top floor the keypad requested a code and Rose ran the sonic screwdriver over it. With a cheery chirp the doors swished open.

"I'm just so hungry," the man with Mycroft's voice was saying. Then, with a creak and crack of bone, that man began to transform into something not remotely recognizable. The woman he was with screamed and the creature began to advance upon her like prey.

"No," Rose cried, running forward and pulling the woman behind herself. The creature turned and, for the first time, Sherlock could see its face.

Everything about it was horrifyingly alien and monstrous except its face. It retained Mycroft's face. His brother's face on a travesty of a creature and that creature was menacing hungrily upon Rose who, Sherlock realized, was effectively unarmed.

Without hesitation, he reached under his poor-fitting jacket and withdrew the weapon that he carried on his person at all times. He levelled a weapon at the monster and shot between his brother's eyes.

Sherlock watched the light go out of Mycroft's steel grey eyes and somewhere inside his mind his five-year-old self screamed his anguish at his brother's death as the creature transformed back into the shape of the man who had known Sherlock the longest and best of any person in his life.

Though he could not have said how, Sherlock found himself explaining to the police. Rose had called UNIT in and the Brigadier vouched for the pair of them. He could never have repeated what was said by him or anyone else, but he and Rose were given permission to leave, and she had bundled him into the back of a cab that would take them back to UNIT headquarters. At no point did she break contact between their hands.

When they arrived, she tugged his hand, still unwilling to let go, and took him to the little kitchen in which the pair of them usually ate. She sat him down and, finally letting go of his hand, began putting something together from various places in the room. Sherlock's mind felt blank. He could not deduce what she was making and found that he was incapable of caring. When she set a steaming mug in front of him, he picked it up and drank without observing. The taste of warm, honeyed milk with a small quantity of whiskey finally shocked his mind into some form of coherency.

"What?" was all he could manage.

"It's just something my mum used to make when I was upset. Finish it up, then we'll go to bed."

Sherlock was not a man to give over control easily, but that night he could do no other. He allowed her to take his empty mug from his hands and put it in the sink. He allowed her to pull him from his seat and pull him to her bed. He let her undress him like a child and tuck him into bed before she undressed herself.

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the howl of misery back from his throat. He would not weep over a man he did not know, even if the face of his brother and the look of his death played on a constant repeat in the recesses of his mind.

Before Rose had joined him, Sherlock was, fitfully, asleep.


	29. Exorcism

**I apologize for failing to warn everyone at the end of yesterday's chapter, but this very short chapter is rated NSFW for sexual content.**

* * *

That night Sherlock woke, an anguished cry tearing at his throat. He thrashed and flailed at the covers as though they were strangling him, and lashed out at Rose, knocking her across the shoulder with one of his flailing hands as she tried to help him.

When finally he was calm, he was horrified to find that he could feel tears coursing down his cheeks. Rose sat beside him, rubbing his back and not speaking. He found that he could not speak either. Mycroft's face, and the light fading from his eyes still played on a continuous loop in his mind and he found that sleep or stillness could not exorcise it. Perhaps action could do so.

Sherlock turned to Rose and pressed his mouth to hers, pushing her back against the mattress. She gave a single squeak of either protest or surprise before returning his kiss in kind. Sherlock was less gentle than was his wont, employing his teeth against her bottom lip without prejudice. He revelled in her gasps, in the noises of both her surprise and pleasure as he pushed her t-shirt roughly up her body, baring her breasts to his rough hands.

He found himself branding her neck with his lips. Her heat helped burn away the madness. The sounds she made drowned out the soundtrack of death and the vision of her, all glory in pink and white and gold replaced the images of death at his hands.

Instead he found pleasure. He pushed her, gripped her, bit her and it wasn't enough. It was not that he did not want to give her pleasure first, but he needed to have her and foreplay was not something that he could devote himself to with the madness seething in his mind. He tugged her knickers off and tossed them aside, brushing against her to reassure himself of her readiness.

He fumbled quickly for a condom and then, without anything said, he plunged into her. As her heat enveloped him, he felt it burn away his control as much as it burned away his pain and he began to weep. He pulled away and out of her, turning his face away.

Rose seemed to understand what he needed without him having to speak the words. She turned from him and raised herself to her hands and knees, her lovely bottom pointed at him. She glanced back at him to be sure that he understood, and then turned away again.

Sherlock positioned himself behind her and sank into her again, gripping her hips too roughly. He took her that way, tears that he did not want her to see falling. He exorcised his demons and his fears in her body and when she came around him with a low, hoarse cry, he let himself go as well and gave in to the oblivion that she offered him.


	30. Healing Bruises

**A chapter in which Sherlock and Rose are a little bit stupid and a lot shippy.**

* * *

The following day, Sherlock woke before Rose. He found that he was curled into her like a child seeking comfort and some part of his mind rebelled at the thought. The rest of him was impossibly grateful that she had been there and he could not seem to force himself to move out of the comfort and psychological safety of her embrace. She seemed able to fight the monsters in the dark and he was pathetically dependent on her strength since he seemed unable to do it himself.

After a few moments, however, she stirred, and Sherlock forced himself to move away from her. Or he would have done, had she not run her hand through his hair with a soft, sweet sigh, gently rubbing at a spot just behind his ear that seemed to leave him boneless.

How, he wondered, could she possibly provide so much comfort without trying? He heard her breathing hitch again, and could tell that she was about to wake fully. He rolled away from her as she stretched and climbed out of the bed. He watched her move around the room naked and unashamed and he felt a warm coil of affection around his heart. It was blocked out suddenly by Mycroft's voice in his head, louder than it had been in months.

"You're losing your grip, brother-mine, look at her carefully."

Loath though he was to listen to his brother and blow out the flame that was kindling, he did as Mycroft suggested and looked her over with an analytical eye. It was then that he noticed the finger-tip bruises at her hips, the red weal on her left shoulder and a bite mark at the top of her right breast.

"Marking her like an animal, Sherlock. What has gotten into you?"

Rose turned then, as though she had heard Mycroft's commentary in her head. She had put her bra and knickers on and pulled a shirt over her head, though she had not put on trousers yet. She watched him carefully, as though not certain what she would see when she looked at him.

"You all right?" she asked softly, and Sherlock nearly laughed. He was the one who should be asking her that- he'd bruised her and she was checking on him? Did her compassion know no bounds?

"Yeah," he said, shortly.

"No, you're not," she said, but there was no accusation in her voice. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he said.

She simply nodded and gathered her things to go into the ensuite, leaving him alone with this thoughts and the echo of his brother's voice.

~?~?~?~?~

They did not talk about it. For three weeks, they worked together, slept together and ate together and did not talk about what had happened that day or that night.

The bruises on Rose's hip faded, as did the marks on her shoulder and breast. In the light of day, they worked in the laboratories and discussed theories and designs. They were following Donna Noble's movements and found that she had been fired but was planning a vacation for Christmas away from London. It appeared that she had won a raffle for it. At night, they both suffered nightmares, but never spoke in the dark of their shared bedroom. They would both lay awake, both knowing the other was awake as well, but pretending to be asleep.

The election passed without incident. The new prime minister began working with UNIT directly as the Alien influences on the world became harder and harder to ignore. His name was Davis and he was a bland, earnest man that Rose found wildly uninteresting. She thought Mycroft would have loved him- he would have been very easy to manipulate.

She did not mention these types of musings to Sherlock, however, because any time the name came up, he flinched. He had killed someone with Mycroft's face and form and though she had told him that he would have to think of them as different men, she knew he was still struggling.

She wanted to give him space to avoid smothering him, but as he turned away from her in the night time and again, as he shut down both physically and emotionally every time she even brushed the subject tangentially, as the endearment 'love' fell away completely from their vocabulary, and as even the disinterested UNIT personnel began to notice and question the tension between the pair, Rose determined that she couldn't wait for him to approach her any longer. She might have allowed the Doctor to get away with avoiding talking about his issues, but Sherlock was different for reasons that she couldn't quite quantify and she wouldn't let him put that wall between them.

A month to the day after the incident around midday, Rose took Sherlock's hand as he worked on a computer in one of the workstations.

"Come on," she said, tone brooking no argument.

Sherlock, nevertheless, argued. "I'm busy."

"This is lunch, what you're doing can wait."

"I'm not hungry."

"Funny, I didn't ask, but that's duly noted. Come on." She refused to let go of his hand and, finally, bodily pulled him from his chair. She allowed him to don his coat, despite the fact that it was early summer and he really shouldn't need it and then pulled him out the door and into the sunlight. The pair of them walked. Rose had a plan for where they were going to go, but she wanted time with Sherlock. Even though he had disengaged their hands at the beginning and kept himself stiffly away from her, Rose enjoyed his presence in the sunlight.

When they arrived at a little chippy about a kilometre down the road, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Rose.

"You dragged me out for fish and chips?"

"They're better in this universe," Rose said, confidently, though she had never noticed a difference.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but allowed her to push him into the shop that smelled strongly of grease and salt.

He'd never admit it aloud, but Sherlock was going slowly mad. Having Rose beside him all the time but keeping himself from reaching out to her for comfort and companionship (as had become his habit over the past year) was making him twitchy and angry. He wanted to hold her when she woke weeping from a dream or curl into her embrace when he woke screaming from one.

It was the memory of the damage he had wrought the last time he had done precisely that which held him back. He could obviously not be trusted with Rose's person, and so he should not be trusted with her mind or her affections either. He kept himself away and was completely certain that she would soon exile him from their shared room and their shared life. As he anticipated her doing so, he closed off even more of himself in a desperate (and, he knew, futile) attempt to keep himself from shattering into untold pieces when it happened.

He had pulled himself together after breaking before. He did not think he would be able to do it when he lost Rose.

Walking in the sunlight with her by his side, occasionally skipping and humming tunelessly, he could pretend for a moment that all was well. That they were back in London before everything had gone wrong. That it was still the beginning.

His hand was empty of hers, however, so it wasn't quite right.

When she pushed him into the chippy, it was almost too much. He could lose himself so easily in the images of their first few outings together- fish and chips and laughter and a surprising comfort that he had found in her presence. It seemed only right that this might be their last meal together like this, though the synchronicity was lost in heartache.

She went to the front to order for them and Sherlock found a table and threw himself into a chair. He wondered why she was choosing to do this in a public place, but he had to admit, even after all of this time, the etiquette of these sorts of things was not his area.

She returned with two baskets lined in newsprint. Normally Sherlock would have been as interested in the headlines soaked in oil as the food itself, but even the newspapers could not hold his attention. He waited with bated breath for Rose to tell him politely to sod off from her life. She couldn't send him away- he was an alien to this universe- but she could tell him to sleep in a different room and to treat her like... well... much like he had been treating her for four weeks.

He wondered if their relationship was already over.

Rose ate her chips with every appearance of enjoyment. Sherlock tasted his but could detect no difference between them and those with which he had grown up. He waited, fidgeting as Rose finished her food and wiped her fingers clean on her napkin.

She sat back and looked at him. She glanced down at his barely touched food and gave a quiet laugh. Some things never really changed, and Sherlock Holmes eating something that was not pushed onto him with a modicum of nagging would probably never happen.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked. These were the first words they'd said to each other since they'd left UNIT and Sherlock jumped at her voice.

"Talk about... what?"

Rose had an idea that he might have been about to say something else before he cut himself off. She wondered what he thought they were there to discuss.

"A month ago, today, we found your brother's doppelgänger and you were forced to kill him," she said, laying the facts out without inflection.

Sherlock was horrified. She was ending things with him because of that? How could he have done differently? It tormented him, yes, haunted his nightmares, but he had been able to see no other way. He knew that she did not approve of killing where avoidable, but he could not see how it had been in that moment.

Rose was continuing. "You haven't slept a night through since then. You've been having nightmares. You're barely eating. You're not even concentrating on the work the way you should be. And... it's like you don't want to be with me anymore. And... well... if you don't... it's fine... but I still think we should talk about it, right? Because I still want to be with you."

"You... want to be with me still?" Sherlock said the words like they were a revelation and Rose wondered what had been happening in his head for the past four weeks.

"Of course I do."

"But... I hurt you."

Rose frowned. "What? When?"

"The night... the night it happened. I saw the bruises."

"Did you do it to hurt me?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"Then it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. I..."

"No, it doesn't. You weren't trying to hurt me. You needed something to hold onto, and you held onto me. When you were scared and upset and needed something to anchor you, you chose me. Does that sound even a tiny bit familiar?"

Sherlock remembered the first time they'd been together like that- after Rose had been faced with the Daleks again. He hadn't been bruised as she had, but he'd been used, and she'd turned away from him just as he had tried turning away from her.

She had been much more patient with him than she had been with herself and, again, he wondered at her compassion.

"That's what it means," Rose continued, "when you're together like this. It means that you have someone to hold you and ground you and make things better when you're scared and sad."

"And I haven't been that for you since..." Sherlock trailed off, still unable to talk about it.

"And you haven't let me be that for you either," Rose said, raising an eyebrow at him. "So let's start again, all right? No more holding me at a distance, okay? And when you're ready to talk, you'll talk to me, right?"

Sherlock felt like a leaden weight had been lifted from his heart and his chest. He felt like he could breathe again for the first time in a month.

He smiled, and it was as though the muscles had to re-learn how to do it, but when she smiled back, he had a feeling that they would get the proper practice again.


	31. Witness

**So I don't know if you all are aware, but the rather fantastic WhoLockGal's rather fantastic story, _Fish Tales_, is complete and you should go read it and comment on it because it's glorious. It's RoseLock, a bit like this one, but way less frustrating.**

**Yay, Mickey's back! Enough with the other two and their relationship angst!**

**As ever, I love you all for reading, reviewing, and just generally being lovely people!**

* * *

Mickey landed and glanced around himself. Cardiff again. He turned on the spot and, as he expected, there was the TARDIS standing in the middle of the square being completely ignored by the Welsh citizens.

Except one.

Mickey watched in astonishment as a man went running like a mad person toward that box. His coat flapped behind him and he shouted "Doctor" as he ran.

It seemed, Mickey observed, that Jack Harkness had finally found the Doctor again. And right around the time Rose had told him to, even. Mickey was a bit impressed until he saw that the ship was beginning to dematerialize without the Captain on board.

Was the Doctor leaving Jack behind? Again?

Jack, it seemed, was not having that. He made a flying leap and grabbed onto the side of the box as it finished dematerializing and vanished with it.

Mickey's eyes were wide at the sight. He knew the Captain couldn't die, but what would it do to him to travel on the outside of the TARDIS through the vortex like that?

He considered his options and decided that he could sit there waiting for the Doctor to get back and tell him how Jack was or he could move on.

Mickey had not been one for waiting in several years, so he returned to Cardiff to try again.

~?~?~?~?~

The next time that Mickey landed in the Prime universe, it was in a place that was extremely familiar all over again. He was in the back garden of Martha's mother's house.

As he stood, out of sight of the windows, watching the TARDIS, he was shocked to see Martha herself walk out. But it was not Martha as ever Mickey had known her. This was not Martha the doctor (as his version was) but a Martha who was a solider. She was in jeans and a red leather jacket (he knew that jacket, Mickey thought) but she carried herself like a woman who gave orders. Mickey recognized it because Rose moved the same way.

She was two steps out of the TARDIS when her face fell and she turned back and entered it again. Mickey wondered what might have caused that reaction.

After a minute though, she had left again, and there was something even stronger in the way she carried herself- shoulders straighter, head higher. She had, just the barest ghost of a proud smile at the corners of her mouth and she walked into her mother's house like a woman who had faced her demons.

Mickey did not know what this Martha had gone through, but he knew the Doctor and he knew that sometimes the bravest course where that man was concerned was to walk away from him while your body and heart were still whole.

"Well done, Martha Jones," he murmured, those words drowned out by the whoosh of the TARDIS as it dematerialized. "I've always said that you're a star."

~?~?~?~?~

The first thing Mickey noticed when he landed the next time was the bitter cold. The second was the brilliance of the stars. He turned to the corner of the night sky that he knew (from London) held the darkness, and there were stars shining in it telling him that nothing had happened, not yet.

He turned and found the TARDIS sitting on the edge of the water. He went to her and leaned against the side, watching the quiet, glittering city for a few long moments. He could see the fairy lights on many of the buildings that told him it was Christmas, and he smiled. Christmas in London, he thought, and hoped that he was back home for his next one. Seeing Martha Jones had made him homesick again, and though he knew that he'd never have a quiet holiday with her by the fireside unless he made sure the universe would see the end of summer, but he was looking forward to it.

As he stood looking out over the cold, still city and the brilliant stars, Mickey noticed something. One of those stars was growing larger as though hurtling toward the Earth. He straightened from where he was leaning against the battered wood and watched, horrified, as the star quickly (far too quickly, it must be out of control) resolved itself into what appeared to be a massive cruise ship. It was wreathed in flames from the atmosphere and was aiming straight for North London.

Mickey watched in horror as it advanced. If it hit, if someone didn't pull it up in time, it would destroy half of London and the gods only knew what type of engines the ship had- if they were nuclear engines, the fallout would kill the other half. He knew that there was nothing that he could do but watch and die, or jump away and leave London to her fate. He fingered the return switch in his pocket but hesitated, continuing to watch the descending ship. Should someone bear witness to London's death?

Finally, as the nose of the huge ship must have nearly knocked the slates from the roof of Buckingham Palace and Mickey could feel the heat from the flames that engulfed the ship, it levelled and hovered over the city, benign and quiet and wildly terrifying.

Mickey shook his head. "Cutting it a bit close this time, were you, Doctor?" he murmured before jumping away.

~?~?~?~?~

Mickey landed in an alley next to his favourite sentient time-and-space ship in all the multiverse and a sensible sedan the same shade of blue. He frowned for a moment at this second vehicle (by far the less suspicious of the two vehicles parked in that alley and therefore the most worthy of his attention) when he noted out of the corner of his eye that something was happening in the sky beside the building in whose shadow he stood.

He stepped onto the street and found a knot of people to join, all staring up at tiny little white... creatures that were being levitated into the belly of a massive UFO.

"Not the slightest bit clichéd or anything," Mickey mumbled, watching the spectacle.

Then there was a woman in the midst of all of the smaller creatures being held aloft as the last of the white blobby things was sealed away inside the ship. She appeared to be human, but Mickey had long since learned (from the Doctor himself) that _looking_ human in no way _made_ one a human.

Mickey frowned. The door to the ship was closed and yet the woman was still held airborne. Surely they wouldn't...

But then the light went out and she plummeted to the ground. Mickey's eyes went wide with horror at the sickening sound she made as she hit the pavement. While everyone else looked down, Mickey looked up to see the ship zooming away and a brown-suited man and a ginger woman leaning over the edge of the building. The Doctor and, if Mickey wasn't mistaken, the woman whose form the TARDIS had taken in Pompeii.

It was still too early, Mickey knew, but it was so hard to hold himself away. Rose was still missing and half of the night sky in his home universe was dark now and it was moving faster. They had weeks, two or three only, left and Mickey was having trouble being willing to continue to wait.

He held himself still, however, when he noticed, in the alley, that the Doctor and Donna were talking, and Donna was loading the Doctor up with suitcases and bags. It was her first time joining the Doctor as companion, Mickey realized. The TARDIS could not have taken her form if she had not been a companion. A circular paradox that Mickey knew he couldn't break, and so he didn't. He stood quiet and watched them surreptitiously hoping not to be noticed.

A few minutes later, that ginger woman tapped him on the shoulder.

"Listen, there's this woman that's gonna come along... a tall, blonde woman called 'Sylvia.' Tell her 'that bin there,'" she said, pointing at a blue trash bin on the sidewalk. "All right? It'll make sense. That bin there." She pointed again and ran off grinning.

Mickey turned back to the crowd and wondered if he had made a huge mistake.

~?~?~?~?~

Mickey landed and immediately began coughing. The air tasted of chemicals even as he breathed it in and he could feel his lungs beginning to protest immediately the lack of oxygen he was providing them.

Again, he knew there was nothing he could do. He looked up and saw, through the fug of pollution an ominous ship hanging in the sky, and ranks upon ranks of people in gas masks facing it. He knew that they were the defence of the Earth- this Earth- not he. His responsibility was the universe and, with that thought in mind, he transported away to where his lungs could take in air again.


	32. Breakthrough

**A chapter in which we FINALLY start moving forward.**

* * *

Without the brilliant minds of Torchwood, the dimension cannon was a secret that took ages to unlock. For months the UNIT team fought with the physics, the theories and the designs. Rose knew the rough outline of the designs but her knowledge of the physics and temporal theorem was less secure, and Sherlock was learning it all from scratch (though he was fully brilliant enough to manage it).

In the meantime, they continued to watch Donna Noble as she looked for a new job, dated a bit, and was a rather glaring temporal anomaly.

They had equipment (designed by the Doctor himself, the Brigadier claimed) that could spot a temporal peculiarity. When the Doctor and the TARDIS were on Earth, they threw off every reading, but with the Doctor dead (and the thought still turned Rose's stomach to lead) and the TARDIS dying (which thought made Rose want to scream) they could see that time seemed to bend around Donna Noble in a way that no one had seen before. The start of the anomaly appeared to be a day in the spring of the previous year. Rose had checked and it was the day that Donna had gotten her new job, and it seemed to focus particularly on a street as Donna turned right to go to the job interview. Rose did not know what it meant.

She thought, in those painful, dark parts of her mind, that the Doctor would have known. The Doctor would have seen the problem and fixed it in a moment, trainers squeaking, mouth running, and spectacles slipping down his nose. Rose hated herself for not being able to be the Doctor and there were nights that she cried in Sherlock's arms for exactly that reason.

Sherlock berated himself for much the same reason. What good was being nearly the cleverest man on the planet (his version of it, anyway) if one could not save one's self and the world? _And Rose Tyler_ the voice in Sherlock's head sneered. Sherlock hushed it absently because it was correct. If he were forced to choose between the world and Rose Tyler, he somehow thought that he was not as good a man as the Doctor to make the same decision.

He did hope, however, that the choice was never asked of him.

As the months passed and the tension mounted, Rose began to despair. She gave up food and sleep in favour of coffee again, and even Sherlock turned back to cigarettes. Through the summer they worked and watched Donna Noble. Jack returned to London every few weeks, but even he was beginning to grow discouraged as progress trickled. Rose felt better when he was there, however, because his determined good cheer helped Rose find her own and served as a stark counterpoint to Sherlock's own depression and angst.

Every night, before she went to sleep, Rose read through the list of coordinates that the TARDIS had given her like a prayer. The old ship believed she could do it, so she would have to.

Summer passed in a blaze of frustration as nothing they tried worked. Donna continued to fail to find a job.

In early autumn, they had a breakthrough. They couldn't travel to the other timeline, but Sherlock had found that, by altering a few of the connections, they could look into the main timeline that was bending so peculiarly around Donna Noble. He managed to catch a few images- most of them of the inside of the TARDIS. He saw the man he knew to be the Tenth Doctor. He saw a woman who looked remarkably like Martha Jones, and the woman he knew as Donna Noble. He seemed to be looking through view-screens and occasionally saw people that he didn't think belonged with the Doctor in the long term.

Sherlock showed Rose what he had found. Her eyes went wide, watching the Doctor alive and Sherlock did his best to quash the rising jealousy in his chest.

"Can we talk to him? Can he see us?" she asked, breathless.

Sherlock's heart seized, even as his mind reminded him that contacting the Doctor was the point of the entire exercise. "I... no. But I'll work on it."

Rose glanced at him. His face was carefully blank, which meant he was hiding a storm.

"Sherlock, you know it's not..."

"No," he stopped her. "It's fine. I'll work on making it possible to contact the Doctor. I'll let you know when I make headway."

Rose watched Sherlock turn away. They'd made so much progress in the past few months and it made her heart ache to see him turning away from him again.

She grabbed his hand to stop him leaving and then folded herself against him for a moment. Sherlock's arms came, nearly automatically, to wrap around her. She remained there until she felt him relax and rest his cheek against the top of her head.

"Thank you," she murmured. "This is the first breakthrough we've had and it's wonderful. I think... I hope it'll help. This may be exactly what we need. I'll get some of the scientists so you can show them what you did."

She felt him smile against her head, and was pleased to know that she had cracked his mask. They would be okay.

~?~?~?~?~

Nearly three weeks passed before Sherlock was able to get even the shortest of videos to pass across the timelines. The first time, he saw the inside of the TARDIS and the ginger woman that they had met on the street the night the Doctor died. The transmission only lasted for a moment before the screen went blank.

Sherlock brought Rose in so that she would be there if they managed to catch the Doctor. There were a few more times that they saw the inside of the empty TARDIS, but they never saw the man himself.

After a week or so, they finally had success. What looked like a bus with a few scared-looking people and the back of a head of brownish, sticky-up hair.

"Doctor!" Rose yelled. He did not respond. "Doctor!" she cried again, and again, no response. Sherlock lost the connection after that- they were always a bit slippery.

"I'm sorry," he said to her, seeing her frown.

"It must not be transmitting sound, that's all," she said.

"I should have thought of that."

She shook her head.

"Do you want me to try again?"

"Actually, I want to show you what your breakthrough helped us manage on the dimension cannon," she said, smiling at him and offering her hand.

Sherlock took it and she brought him to the underground room with the TARDIS, the mirrors, and the complicated work to which she had devoted herself for the better part of a year.

"Look at this," she said with a genuine smile, (and how long had it been since he'd seen her give a real smile, Sherlock wondered) as she handed him the design blueprints.

"You managed to touch the other timeline, and what you did straightened out the temporal physics for us. You just stumbled onto it, didn't you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I never guess, and I never 'stumble' onto an answer," he said, haughtily.

"Yes you do."

He smiled, and noticed that he seemed to have forgotten how to do it as well. "Hush, no one's supposed to know that."

"There are still a few weeks to go before testing is ready but... they say we should be able to jump by the New Year."

In her eyes was all of the same nervousness that Sherlock had been experiencing. They'd been six months without a real adventure, stuck, as Rose called it, on the 'slow path.'

He'd found that the 'slow path' wasn't for him, and it clearly wasn't for her.

In nearly a year that they had spent with UNIT, Rose had lost too much weight. There were dark circles under her eyes that even the heaviest makeup couldn't cover, her hair was lank, and her skin was too pale. Sherlock knew that he looked little better. If asked, neither could have said the last time they'd had an uninterrupted night's sleep, and neither ate for more than the most basic of necessity. Jack commented on it when he was around, but neither listened or bothered to change.

Christmas approached, and with it the possibility of the new cannon finally working. Rose was a bundle of nervous energy, and Sherlock rarely sat still. On Christmas Eve, they had planned their first test with a laboratory rat before trying it with human subjects.

Rose, Sherlock, and three technicians were in the bunker with the cannon and the TARDIS when the cruise ship crashed into North London and nearly decimated the entire population. Being in the bunker saved them, but there was nothing they could do for their countrymen. All of UNIT died that day along with all of London, and much of the south coast of England where the nuclear fallout was the worst.

It took three weeks to contact Jack Harkness and the team in Cardiff, and in that time, they were believed lost. They, like Sherlock, Rose and the fragile remains of UNIT were in a bunker and were thus protected from the nuclear fallout and stuck where they were.

They kept an eye as best they were able on Donna Noble. The Christmas holiday she had won in her raffle had her and her family in Italy on Christmas Eve, and away from ground zero. They survived, and time continued to bend weirdly around Donna.

The attempts to correct the cannon continued, but no matter how much energy was put into it, the progress continued at a snail's pace. Rose was beginning to wonder if they would ever make it work. She found herself, one day, in the dark, silent TARDIS, seated on the jumpseat, head in her hands, asking precisely that question aloud.

It had been weeks since Rose had last heard even the faintest thrum from the old ship, and she had nearly decided that the old girl had finally died. She'd wept at the death of the last child of Gallifrey, and Sherlock had not understood.

As Rose sat in the dark console room, despairing, however, she felt a slim golden tendril in her mind and her head shot up. The TARDIS was making herself known as though she had been building up her strength for this. The presence seemed to coil and coalesce into Rose's mind until it was a single, very clear idea. It was the final step, the final clue to making the cannon work, and the TARDIS had simply set it in her brain as though it had always been there.

Rose stood and rushed to the console, throwing her arms around the Time Rotor. Sherlock entered at that moment and found Rose hugging the old time ship as though she were a friend which, he supposed, she was.

"Are you all right?"

Rose turned away from the Rotor and ran into Sherlock's arms, leaping at the last moment so that he caught her flying. She crashed her lips against his, shocking him out of his reaction. Before he could respond, however, she pulled away.

"I know how to do it, Sherlock. I know how to make the cannon work. The TARDIS gave it to me. We're going to be able to do it!"

Sherlock looked down at her, hope shining out of her eyes and nodded. "Better get to work then, right?"

~?~?~?~?~

They heard about the horror in America where a diet pill caused people to turn into little fat creatures in passing as they toiled like madmen to get the cannon working. Rose's constant refrain was 'this isn't right, this shouldn't be happening.' Sherlock couldn't help but agree. On the rare occasions that they could access the internet or television stations, they saw an England torn apart, and it broke his heart to see his homeland so changed from the country he knew.

They continued to watch Donna as she and her family were shipped away to Leeds, Scotland and placed in a house with three other families. The poor woman couldn't find work. From what Rose could see she was qualified for clerical work, the call for which was minimal in a devastated England.

~?~?~?~?~

The words "work camps" were whispered across the airwaves and Sherlock lost his temper.

He paced their shared bedroom while Rose sat quiet on the bed, watching him as he moved.

"Those idiots! Don't they see what they're doing? They're repeating history. England doesn't do this, we're better than this!" he cried, throwing his arms out, and turning to face her.

"England is doing this," she said softly.

"Rose," he began, but she continued, interrupting him.

"And England's history is as blood-soaked and cruel as any country's, Sherlock. Humans are rather horrible and shameful, naturally. Human history is filthy, and so is our future. But it's also glorious and brave and wise. I think that's why the Doctor always came back. Because we can be the cleverest, stupidest, most beautiful, most horrible forces for good and evil in the universe. It's just... in our nature, I suppose."

"And this?" Sherlock was looking for hope- for some shred of good in the horror he felt at the actions of his homeland.

"And this... if we get this right... will never be."

~?~?~?~?~

A few weeks later they received an urgent message from Torchwood and Jack.

_Bad Wolf and Sherlock Holmes: we know that, being in London and therefore at the epicentre of the disaster, your communication with the outside world is spotty at best so we would like to inform you that the Sontarans have made an overture of war and have attempted to create a nursery planet on Earth by releasing the necessary chemicals from our cars using the ATMOS navigation software._

_Torchwood has a plan to salvage the planet. We must burn away the chemicals before they kill the entire population. Commanders Cooper and Jones have agreed to take on the mission to light the atmosphere. We suspect that it will be a suicide mission. Captain Harkness has agreed to enter the enemy ship and sabotage any attempts to stop our mission. If he does not return, he asks that you remember his team as the bravest humans he has ever known, save for Rose Tyler herself, and that he will see you all in Hell._

_Torchwood out._

UNIT tried desperately to reach Torchwood after receiving the message but, as the team in Cardiff had intimated, their communications were spotty at best. When, after two weeks, they were unable to make contact with the team, they gave up.

Rose cried for an hour when Jack Harkness was declared a loss.

Three days later, the cannon was ready to fire.


	33. Turn Left

**Pretty much does what it says on the tin.**

**From here on out, the Doctor Who universe starts to get a bit more... AU. Up to this point, things have been effectively the same as they were in the show that we all know and love, but things are going to start to get weird now.**

* * *

Rose had read and re-read the list of coordinates every day and could whisper them like a prayer. Sherlock knew that there was no way that she could possibly forget any of them and yet, when the time came to enter the first set of coordinates, she removed from her pocket a folded and re-folded piece of notebook paper with Sarah Jane's hurried reporter's scrawl across it. With trembling hands she set it in front of the monitor where a blinking message instructed her to input coordinates.

"Which one do we start with?" Sherlock asked, glancing down the list.

"Begin at the beginning, Alice," Rose quoted softly. "Granted, they came from the TARDIS and her view of the 'beginning' might be entirely different from ours, but it seems as reasonable an assumption as any other to start with the first and continue to the last." She glanced up at the old ship and, with all of her mental might, sent a wave of all of her gratitude and affection to her. Rose felt nothing in return, though she honestly had not expected to.

She hoped that what they were about to do would save the Time Ship. She hoped that it would save the world. This universe was one she would not mourn if it collapsed- Jack Harkness trapped on Sontar, England fallen, Sarah Jane and Luke and Martha Jones dead. No, Rose would shed no tears for this timeline's destruction.

That morning, for the first time in untold weeks, Rose faced herself in a mirror critically. She had dressed carefully in her own clothes from her own universe- burgundy top, blue leather jacket, black trousers. She hoped to see this timeline collapse like a house of cards before the day died and she did not want to be standing naked in the street when it did.

Rose had looked at her reflection carefully. Her eyes looked too large in a face that had become too thin. Her skin was not the healthy pink that it had been when first she had landed in this god-forsaken timeline. Her jacket hung loose over a frame that had lost too much healthy weight. Her hair was lank and the darkness under her eyes could not be covered by makeup. She looked horrible, she knew. She looked old. She looked, she thought wildly, a bit like the Doctor when first she had met him- broken, lonely, and just a little bitter.

As she frowned into the mirror, however, Sherlock joined her, at her side. She met his eyes in the mirror (as sunken and dark as her own, she noted) and re-assessed her conclusions. Broken and bitter she might be, but not lonely. Not while he was there.

"Ready?" she asked him, eyebrows raised.

"Ready."

~?~?~?~?~

In a bright flash of light and an electric buzz, Rose and Sherlock were thrown into an alleyway in the dark of a London that still stood. The new cannon had a few issues with inertial compensation, it appeared, and the pair of them stumbled into the street.

Rose nearly fell, but Sherlock managed to grab her roughly by the arm and pull her to him to keep her from landing on the ground. Suddenly, Rose was pulled from his grip.

"Oi! You leave her alone!"

Sherlock's face was suddenly full of angry ginger. It would seem that they had landed right in front of Donna Noble who was bound and determined to save Rose from what she perceived as an attack. As swiftly as she had appeared, she turned away and pulled Rose to the side.

"Are you all right, sweetheart? Is he bothering you? Do you need me to call the police?"

Sherlock took a step toward them and Donna turned on him like an avenging angel.

"Don't you come one step closer, mister. My mates say I'm the loudest person in the city and I'll scream so loud the police will be here in thirty seconds if you take even one more step, got it?"

Sherlock froze then took a step back, returning to his previous position.

Donna turned back to Rose. "Whatever he's told you, you don't have to go back to him. I've seen those movies where girls go back to the bloke who's chasing them or hurting them, and you don't have to. I'll help you out, right?"

Rose had, finally, managed to recover from the onslaught of Hurricane Donna and started to laugh.

"Oi," Donna shouted. She took a step back from Rose and crossed her arms over her chest looking offended.

Rose calmed herself quickly. "No, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you. It's just," she gestured to Sherlock, "he's my friend. I tripped and he caught me. I'm really fine, I swear."

Donna turned to glare at Sherlock as though it were all his fault, but her eyes suddenly widened. "It's you," she breathed. She turned to look at Rose again. "The pair of you. From Christmas last. Who are you?"

Rose smiled and did not answer. "Nice to see you, Donna. You're looking well."

Donna glared at her then turned to check on Sherlock, only to find him looking at her back.

"You're doing it again."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to her face. "Doing what?"

"Looking behind me. People keep doing that, looking at my back."

"What kind of people?" Rose asked, drawing Donna's attention back to herself. She'd seen the creature- like a beetle but massive- as the older woman had drawn her away. She could still only see it out of the corner of her eye.

"People in the street," Donna said sounding angry and scared. "Strangers. I just catch them, sometimes, staring at me… like they're looking at something. And then I get home and look and there's nothing there." She spun again, as though to look at her own back. "See? Now I'm doing it."

"Do you have plans for Christmas?" Sherlock asked, suddenly.

Donna turned and gave him an annoyed look. "You asking, sunshine? You're not my type. Besides, I just got sacked so no money. Besides, that's ages away. Why does it matter?"

"You should get out. You and your family. Get out of the city," Rose said seriously.

"What for?" Donna was beginning to sound suspicious.

"Maybe a nice hotel for Christmas break."

"I just told you, I can't afford it."

"You've got that raffle ticket," Sherlock suggested, making Donna spin on him. She was going to make herself dizzy if she kept spinning in place like that, and it wasn't a good move from a defence perspective as she kept putting one person at her back whenever she did it.

"That's right," Rose said, nodding, and Donna spun back. "First prize is a luxury vacation. You should use it, Donna Noble."

"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously. "Tell me your name, why don't you?"

Neither of them answered, and Donna began to back away from them as though they were advancing on her with a weapon. The pair of them stayed in place, however, allowing her to leave.

"You two leave me alone, you got that? Leave me alone!" she shouted as she turned and hurried up the street.

As she turned, both Sherlock and Rose caught sight of the creature on her back and shuddered.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose and Sherlock appeared on another dark street in a city that was obviously not London. There were the sounds of gunshots from a street over.

"It's obviously after Christmas," Sherlock deduced, looking around. "I think we're in Scotland."

Rose had her eyes over his shoulder on the ginger woman who had just appeared looking scared and resigned.

"Hello," Donna said.

"Hi."

"How did you know to get me out of London?"

"Always good to get out of the city," Rose said, softly. Donna frowned and Rose sighed. "What's happening now?"

"The cars, something about releasing gasses."

Sherlock saw Rose pale. He glanced around and saw a small hill with what appeared to be a bench at the top. "Come on, let's go sit," he said, tugging Rose's hand and knowing that Donna would follow.

They walked in silence and, by the time they reached the bench and had arranged themselves with Rose in the middle, she had pulled herself together.

"It's the ATMOS devices. We're lucky it's not so bad here. Britain hasn't got that much petrol, but all over Europe, China, South Africa… they're getting choked by gas."

"Can't anyone stop it?" Donna asked.

"They're trying now," Sherlock said as Rose watched the sky. "There's this… little band of fighters on-board the Sontaran ship and any second now…"

The sky lit with flame as Gwen and Ianto set fire to the atmosphere.

"That was the Torchwood Team," Rose whispered, not taking her eyes from the stars that were again visible. "Gwen Cooper, Ianto Jones… they gave their lives." Her voice was choked with tears. "And Captain Jack Harkness transported to the Sontaran homeworld. There's no one left."

Sherlock reached over and took her hand.

"Almost no one left," she amended quietly.

"You're always wearing the same clothes and you won't tell me your names. Why?" Donna asked, the sharpness returning to her voice.

"This isn't supposed to happen," Sherlock said, turning to her. "Look around you. You know this isn't what England is supposed to be."

"Well no shit, Sherlock," Donna snarked and Rose smiled slightly. "Everyone's saying that, but it happened and there's no getting around that."

"But it didn't happen. Or it shouldn't have happened. There was this man. This wonderful man who stopped it all- the Titanic, the Adipose, the ATMOS. Stopped them all from happening."

"That Doctor?" Donna asked.

Rose nodded. "You knew him."

"Did I?" She sounded shocked. "When?"

"I think you might dream about him. A man in a suit? Tall, thin man, great hair? Some… really great hair…" Rose trailed off and Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly to bring her out of her reverie.

"Who are you?" Donna asked, and again she was beginning to sound angry.

"I was like you. I used to be you. You've travelled with him, Donna. You've travelled with the Doctor in a different world."

"I didn't and he's dead," Donna said, an incontrovertible fact.

"He died under the Thames on Christmas Eve, but you were meant to be there, I think. He needed someone to stop him, and it was you. You made him leave. You saved his life."

For a long moment, Donna was silent, eyes unfocused. After a moment, she returned her attention to Rose's face.

"Stop it! I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone."

Rose knew it wasn't her, it was probably the TARDIS (and why the old girl had been so quiet for so long), but she didn't say anything.

"Something is coming, and it's worse than nuclear fallout and disappearing hospitals," Sherlock said.

"How can it be worse than this? Have you looked around?" Donna sounded hopeless and lost.

"Trust me," Rose said. "We need the Doctor more than ever. I… we've been pulled across from a different universe because every universe is in danger. It's coming, Donna. It's coming from across the stars and nothing can stop it."

"What is?" Donna asked, nearly in tears.

"The darkness," Sherlock rumbled.

"Well why don't you two fix it?" Donna exploded. "You two who apparently come from another universe and jump from place to place in a flash of light. You know what's going to happen, so prevent it, damn it! What do you need me for? What am I supposed to do? I mean… I'm not… I'm nothing special. I'm a temp. Hell, I'm not even that. I'm _nothing_."

"Oh Donna Noble," Rose said, and she tried to infuse her voice with everything she knew, all the confidence of the Doctor and Sherlock Holmes and the Bad Wolf combined. "You are the most important person in the whole of creation."

"Don't. Just… don't." Donna shook her head and everything about her seemed to dim. "I'm tired. I'm so… tired."

Donna rose and began to walk away.

"We need you to come with us!" Rose called after her.

"Look," Donna said turning and glaring at Rose, "blonde hair might work on the men," she glanced at Sherlock, "but you ain't shifting me, lady."

Rose grinned. "That's more like it."

"There's plenty more."

"I know you'll come with us, Donna, but only when you _want_ to."

"You'll have a long wait."

"Not really. Just about three weeks now," Sherlock said, calculating the date. "Does your grandfather still have that telescope?"

"He never lets go of it," Donna answered suspiciously.

"Three weeks time," Sherlock repeated.

"But you have to be certain," Rose said. "Because, when you come, Donna… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but… you're going to die."

Sherlock took Rose's hand, and together, in a flash of light, they vanished from before Donna Noble's eyes.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose and Sherlock landed on the same street as the last time. Rose glanced at the sky and could see the stars vanishing, one at a time. Sherlock looked at the hill where they had sat the last time and could see two figures on the top of it.

As they approached the figures, their voices drifted down to them.

"Well… maybe it's the clouds." This was Donna's voice- always trying to find the most obvious answer.

"There's no clouds."

"Well, there must be!"

"There's not! It was there. An entire constellation…" The old man's voice trailed off. This must be Donna's grandfather, Wilfred Mott. "Look… look there… they're going out. Oh my god, Donna, the stars are going out."

Donna turned and seemed unsurprised to see Rose and Sherlock standing where they were.

"I'm ready," she said, resignedly.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose led Donna into the bunker with the dimension cannon and the TARDIS while Sherlock followed the pair of them. They were met at the door by one of the technicians (and Rose tried desperately to remember the woman's name, but could not, in spite of having spent months working alongside her) with a salute.

"Ma'am," she said.

"Oh don't salute," Rose said with a frown. "How many times do I have to tell you? And don't call me ma'am, it makes me feel old."

"Well, if you'd tell us your name…"

"Wait," Donna said, looking around. "You lot don't know their names either?"

"Code names only, at their insistence," the woman confirmed.

"There's too many different realities in play here. Trust me, the wrong word in the wrong place can change an entire causal nexus. Names, in particular, are powerful and dangerous so no, we don't go throwing ours around all over the place."

"She talks like that a lot, but at least she's better than him," she nodded toward Sherlock, who was giving the impression of ignoring all of the proceedings. "You must be Miss Noble."

"Donna."

"Captain Erisa Magambo." Rose considered filing that information away, but she anticipated this reality collapsing in a few moments, so she did not. "Thank you for this."

"I don't even know what I'm doing," Donna admitted.

"Is she awake, Captain?" Rose asked. She'd asked the team to keep an eye on the TARDIS. She didn't have terribly high hopes, but she thought the old girl might give her a hint as she got closer. Thus far there had been no luck. As far as the team was concerned, she and Sherlock had been away from them for two weeks, though for the pair of time travellers, it had only been a minute or two.

"It seems quiet today, like it's waiting."

Rose looked at Donna from the side of her eye as though suggesting something mischievous and naughty. "Do you want to see her?"

"The police box?"

"Yeah. Salvaged from underneath the Thames." Rose nodded at the door. "Go inside."

"What for?"

"Just go in," Rose said with a smile.

Donna tentatively crossed the threshold. Sherlock stepped up beside Rose and they both waited in anticipation for what they knew was coming.

"No. Way," Donna shouted from inside the ship.

Sherlock and Rose chuckled as she exited, walked around the outside of the ship, and stood again in front of the pair of them.

"So? What do you think?" Rose asked with a grin.

"Can… can I have a coffee?" Donna asked plaintively.

Rose and Sherlock laughed again.

"I'll make it for you, come on," Rose said, taking Donna's arm. If he makes it for you, it'll be strong enough to walk out of the cup and syrupy with sugar. Can't stand his coffee, I can't."

"I make good tea though," Sherlock defended.

"Of course you do, dear," Rose said as she led Donna away, shaking her head silently at the other woman to make her laugh.

When they reached the small kitchen, Donna watched Rose putting together coffee.

"That man in there… he's not the Doctor."

"No," Rose said. She wondered how many people would ask that question before all was said and done. "He's helping me find the Doctor."

"Did he travel with him as well then?"

"No." Rose paused in scooping coffee into the percolator. "He's… mostly taking care of me. Saving the universe as well, of course, but he wants to see me safe." Rose shook her head after a moment and poured Donna her coffee and started to lead her away. "So, the TARDIS."

"The what?" Donna asked, incredulous.

"The TARDIS."

"That's not a word," Donna said as they approached the front of the box again.

Rose shrugged. "You're right, it's an acronym. It stands for Time and Relative Dimension In Space, T-A-R-D-I-S, TARDIS, you get it?"

"Yeah, all right."

Rose climbed the ramp to where Sherlock stood by the console, gently stroking across the dusty buttons and nobs. She brushed her fingertips over the rotor and said, softly, "this room used to shine with light. She's dying now."

The rotor gave the barest of shudders and a wheeze, more activity than Rose had seen her manage in weeks. She believed she could lay the thanks for that at Donna's feet.

"She's still trying to help," Sherlock observed.

"And… it belonged to the Doctor?" Donna asked.

"Or he belongs to her, it's hard to tell sometimes," Rose said with a smile. "He was… is… was a Time Lord, the last of his kind. His people, when they were around, lived in a sort of symbiosis with the TARDIS. They could travel all of time and space together."

"But if he's so special, what's he doing with me?"

"He thought you were brilliant," Rose said, simply.

"Don't be stupid."

"But you are!" Rose insisted. "He only travels with the best, and the TARDIS loved you. He always does that- takes someone who doesn't think they're anything- someone who works in a shop and doesn't have her A-levels and has never accomplished anything more than to win the bronze medal in a teenager's gymnastics competition and shows them that they're capable of anything they want to be. He does that to everyone he touches."

Donna glanced over the blonde woman with a frown, her gaze flickering between her and the dark-haired man who stood quiet and watchful on the other side of the futuristic console. "Were you and him…" Donna trailed off when gold eyes met hers in a sharp look.

Those eyes slid off of hers in a moment and onto her back. The woman touched Donna's shoulder gently.

"Do you want to see it?" she asked.

"No," Donna answered quickly. She then met Rose's eyes and revised her answer. "Go on then."

Rose led her out of the ship and back into the warehouse. Sherlock took his place at one of the computer consoles next to Captain Magambo as Rose and Donna entered the circle of mirrors.

"My theory is that the creature is just out of phase with time in this timeline, right?" At Donna's blank look, Rose smiled. "Sorry, I do that a lot. Used to drive me mad when the Doctor did. There's going to be lights that are… sort of re-aligning us and the creature, so you'll be able to see it. Nothing is going to touch you, it's just some light, all right?"

"It's a creature?" Donna asked, looking terrified.

"Just stand here. Nothing can hurt you, I promise," Rose said.

"Out of the circle," Sherlock called.

"Right," Rose said to Donna. "I'll be just over there."

"Can't you stay with me?"

"It's just light, I promise." With that, Rose walked away.

"Activating," Captain Magambo called and, one by one, the lights behind each of the mirrors turned on.

Once they had done so and everyone had blinked the spots from their eyes, they could see the creature on Donna's back. It was a huge, horrible beetle with a shiny, black carapace and clicking pincers.

After a moment, Sherlock noticed that Donna's eyes were squeezed shut.

"You've got to open your eyes, Donna," he called out to her.

"Is it there?"

"Yeah," Rose called out. Her voice trembled just slightly, but Sherlock had an idea that no one who knew her as little as the people in that room would have noticed. "Just open your eyes and look."

"I can't," Donna whimpered.

"You can. Please, Donna."

With aching slowness, she opened her eyes and was met with the picture of what was on her back. Donna's face contorted into a mask of disgust and she spun, thrashing at her back to try to dislodge the creature until Rose stood before her. Reflected in the mirrors were women with her face, but different hair colour, different outfits, different lives- she wore a corset and her hair was brown and curly, she wore a suit and heels, she wore spectacles, she wore spangles, her eyes glowed with golden light and she vanquished all of her enemies, she wore a ripped tunic and leggings and smiled oddly. Rose had stood inside the cannon while the time lights were lit before, and she hated it, so she understood the horror of what Donna was seeing.

"It's okay, it's okay. Calm down. Donna? Donna!"

The older woman finally calmed enough to meet Rose's eyes.

"Breathe for me, all right?"

Donna took two deep breaths. "What is it?"

Rose stepped back. "We don't know."

Donna looked angry enough to hit the other woman. "Thanks for that," she growled.

"We think… we think it feeds off of time by changing time- just a little. Missing a meeting or… turning right instead of left. With you it's huge."

"But I've never done anything important," Donna wailed.

"But you did. You might not remember it but… the day you got your job, you were at an intersection in the car. Your turn signal was set to go left, but you changed your mind and went right instead." Rose and the team had watched the point at which the timelines converged on CCTV hundreds of times. "What would have changed if you'd gone left?"

Donna stared at her. "Nothing… nothing. I'd still have been a temp, just at a different company."

"But that's it, the most ordinary thing in the world. You'd have been at a different company, met different people, and, eventually, we think you'd have met the Doctor and you'd have saved his life."

"Can you get it off me?" Donna begged.

"I can't even touch it. It's out of phase with time."

"What does that even mean?" Donna wailed.

"I… I'm not really sure," Rose admitted. "It's the sort of thing the Doctor would say." Almost without meaning to, Rose laughed.

"You liar," Donna shrieked and Rose stepped back from her fury and her hysteria. "You said I was special, but it's just this thing."

"No," Sherlock called from outside the circle, and both women turned to him, the shock of his voice shaking Donna out of her mania for a moment. "That creature would not have done this to just anyone. Reality is bending around you because of it. What it changed- your meeting with the Doctor, is the most important event in the universe. _You_ are the most important person in the universe."

"Because of this thing."

"No," he asserted again. "Before it ever touched you, you had saved the universe. It undid what you had done, nothing more, and reality itself is straining to compensate. Don't you understand?"

"We thought it was just the Doctor that we needed to stop the stars going out, but it's you Donna Noble. You and the Doctor together."

"What do I do?" Donna cried.

Rose shook her head. They didn't know, but they did know that the Doctor would need Donna to do what had to be done.

"Please turn it off," Donna whimpered, unable to look at her reflection any longer.

Sherlock gave a gesture and the lights powered down.

"But it's still there," Donna said, looking at Rose desperately. "How do I get rid of it?"

"You'll have to travel in time," Rose said, softly.

At Donna's tiny nod, the team hustled her into another room quickly and began to provide her with what she would need.

"The TARDIS gave us coordinates before she powered down," Rose explained. "We know where they'll take you because it's the beginning of the temporal anomaly. Your car was on Little Sutton Street Ealing Road, but you turned right heading for Griffin's Parade. You need to turn left. That's the most important thing. You've got to go back and turn left."

Sherlock helped Donna into a rather ugly green coat.

"You'll need to keep that coat on at all times," he explained. "It'll insulate you against temporal feedback." He handed her a watch and pointed to her wrist. "That will correspond to local time wherever you land." He picked up a glass of water from the table and handed it to her. "No matter what she says," he nodded toward Rose, "I can't mess up a glass of water. That'll help combat dehydration."

"One minute past ten," Rose reminded Donna. "Make yourself turn left, heading for the Chiswick Highroad."

Rose led Donna back into the bunker and into the circle of mirrors. The older woman looked around apprehensively.

"I don't want to see that… thing on my back again."

"You won't this time. The mirrors will bounce the chronon energy back to the control centre, and we'll send you to the coordinates."

Donna frowned at this explanation. "It's a time machine?"

Rose grinned at the other woman's cleverness. "It's a time machine."

"Love?" Sherlock's voice bounced into the circle of mirrors.

Rose squeezed Donna's arm and stepped out of the circle.

"Powering up," Sherlock said, and the machines began to whirr.

"How do you know it's going to work?" Donna asked Rose.

"How do you think we found you all those times?" Rose asked back.

"Oh… brilliant," the older woman laughed.

"Remember, when you get to the junction, change the car's direction by one minute past ten," Rose said earnestly.

"How do I do that?"

"It's up to you."

"Well… I'll just have to… run up to myself and… have a good argument."

Rose remembered the TARDIS' words- _she will die_- and smiled sadly. "I'd like to see that."

"Activating," Sherlock called.

"Good luck," Rose said to Donna.

"I'm ready," Donna said, with a smile. "Because I understand now. You said I was going to die, but you mean this whole world is going to blink out of existence."

Rose's face paled. That was exactly what she thought would happen, but she was sending Donna to a time before that timeline had been created, which meant she would not blink out with everyone else. And the universe would not allow two Donna Nobles. Donna would die, she was sure of it.

Donna continued. "But that's not dying. Because a better world takes its place: the Doctor's world. And I'm still alive!"

A Donna would be alive, Rose knew. But not this Donna. This Donna would die.

"That's right, isn't it?" she asked. "If I change things, I don't die? That's… that's right, isn't it?"

Rose didn't know what to say, so she allowed her response to be guided by the Doctor- the man who sent people to their deaths. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"But I can't die," Donna cried. "I've got a future! With the Doctor! You told me!"

"Activate," Sherlock cried, and with a flash of light and a howl of wind, Donna Noble was gone.

Rose sat on the ground where she stood and stared at her hands. Sherlock folded himself up beside her after a moment.

"What happens now?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," Rose said, wearily. "We wait, I suppose. Shouldn't take too long. If I read those coordinates correctly, about 4 minutes."

Sherlock nodded and pushed himself off the floor, then offered his hand to Rose. She looked at him, surprised and he shrugged. "Might as well face it standing," he said.

Rose took his hand to stand, and did not release it as they waited. Four minutes passed and, between one blink and the next, the universe changed. Rather than the dim bunker and the dark TARDIS standing in the corner, Sherlock and Rose stood on a bright street-corner, surrounded by people and noise and life.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, looking around. "Why are we here?"

"Donna," Rose said and rushed forward, forcing Sherlock to follow behind, pushing past people she slipped between.

When Sherlock finally caught up with her, Rose was kneeling beside the dying ginger woman, whispering something into her ear. Sherlock took a quick look about and assessed the situation. Donna had been hit by a car, backing traffic up for several blocks. It was clear going the other direction, he noticed, and realized how she had forced herself to turn left.

By dying.

Sherlock stood in shock at the woman's sacrifice until Rose returned to his side and tugged his hand to get him moving. She pulled him into an alleyway and withdrew from her pocket the dimension cannon return switch and the Doctor's sonic screwdriver.

The pair of them frowned at this last.

"It's from the other timeline," Sherlock said. "It should have vanished with it."

"Gift from the TARDIS," Rose declared, though she looked confused as well. "Come on, let's go home. We've got one last coordinate, and then I think it's over."


	34. Contact

**Oh, you know, you've only been waiting some 90k words for this bit...**

* * *

Rose and Sherlock landed with a flash and a crash in the Torchwood Cardiff hub in the beta universe and it was as though the world exploded around them in a cacophony of voices. Rose looked around to find the entire staff of Torchwood Cardiff crammed into the room with the dimension cannon, save for the one person she was most hoping to see.

"Where is Mickey?" Rose asked her sharp, commanding voice cutting through the chatter like a knife.

"Rose," Gwen said, once everyone had quieted, "you've been gone for weeks."

"I've been gone for over a year, but we lost Mickey. Where is he?"

"A year?" someone shouted.

"He came back," Rory said. "Then he went looking for you."

"He's all right?" Rose asked.

"Last we saw him," Arthur answered. "He jumped a few hours ago."

"How is he directing the cannon?"

"He came back with a TARDIS key a few weeks back," Gwen said.

"More gifts from the TARDIS," Sherlock murmured.

"Always comes back to her in the end," Rose agreed.

"A year, Rose?" Gwen asked.

"I really don't want to talk about it. If every one of you is here, the world must be ending, yeah?"

"Yes," Dorothy said, glancing around. "Our families are… here."

Rose nodded. "Not sure it'll help, but it's as good a plan as any other. Here's the thing. I don't expect to come back until this is over, all right?"

"How do you know it's going to be the right time and place?"

Rose pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper from her pocket. "I have coordinates. From the TARDIS. Now, here's the thing, if the universe rights itself, the dimension cannon may not work anymore because the walls between the universes will have repaired themselves, right? If that happens, we'll come back through in the TARDIS, and I don't know where that'll be but, if I were the sort to place bets, I'd put mine on Bad Wolf Bay- Dårlig Ulv-Stranden- outside of Bergen in Norway. Keep an eye out there for temporal anomalies."

"Are you going to be all right, Rose?" Rory asked.

"Yeah, as soon as this is finished, I'll be fine. Watch the stars, all of you," Rose ordered.

~?~?~?~?~

Another dark night, another London street, but this time Sherlock carried Mickey's plasma cannon. When they landed, Sherlock glanced around to assess the situation and found himself making eye-contact with a milkman on his deliveries.

Milk delivery was a morning occupation, however, and Sherlock frowned.

"Right... now we are in trouble," Rose said from beside him.

Sherlock looked at her, saw that she was looking to the sky and directed his gaze heaven-ward. There, in the sky, was a gold planet, much closer than the moon normally was. Around it were several more planets of various sizes, set against a background, not of bright blue or inky black, but a swirl of pink and red. He gasped. "Impossible."

"It's only just beginning," Rose said.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked.

"No idea, but it's probably a good idea to keep moving. This place'll descend into anarchy within the hour."

The pair of them wove through the streets as Rose was proven right. It took less than five minutes for the first people to emerge from their homes and stare at the sky, less than ten for people to start panicking, and less than a quarter hour for people to start becoming violent or manic. By the time they'd crossed several main thoroughfares, people were running down the streets, breaking into stores, and generally making idiots of themselves.

The pair of them emerged from an alley connecting two roads when a man with a beer in each hand approached them, cheerfully drunk.

"The end of the world, darlin'! The end of the stinkin' world!" he cried.

"Yeah, you have one on me, mate," Rose said with a smile as she walked by. Sherlock sent the man a glare as he followed her.

Up the road a few paces, the plate glass in a store crashed.

Rose sighed and started moving toward it. "Didn't we just save the world from becoming this?" she asked.

"Never underestimate the destructive potential of humans in large numbers," Sherlock philosophized.

"Mmm," Rose murmured non-committally as they approached the store-front. It was an electronics shop, and had a few computers set up for use in the back. That would be just about perfect without the pair of hoodies trying to steal a television, as though it would matter in three hours.

"Right, you two," she said, catching the attention of the boys. "You can put that stuff down, or you can run for your lives." She took a step to the side and allowed Sherlock to step forward, cold eyes and enormous gun on display. "This is my boyfriend," Rose said with a smile. Sherlock released the safety on the gun. "And that's his gun."

The boys took off running, and Sherlock clicked the safety back in place.

"Laying it on a bit thick tonight, are we?" he asked laconically.

"You don't hold the patent on unnecessary drama, you know."

Rose sat herself in front of one of the computer consoles and opened a browser up to the news. The ships were approaching. She opened up another window and started working her way into UNIT. Now that the secondary timeline was destroyed, she didn't have her own login, but she'd managed to catch the Brig putting his password in once, and used that information for herself.

The ships were approaching quickly, and UNIT had one Martha Jones (codename Nightingale, for reasons that Rose could not unearth) in charge of some type of teleportation technology. Rose smiled at the idea of Martha Jones who had been her best friend after Mickey before she'd met Sherlock and John, as a companion to the Doctor. For that was what it said in her file. She'd been a companion for nearly 18 months, over the course of approximately a week in linear time.

Rose idly hoped that Mickey knew. He'd love that. She also hoped that Mickey was well.

"There's an incoming message from the ships," Sherlock said, pointing at the screen.

Rose went searching for a way to turn on the volume but the computer appeared to not have speakers.

"Go grab some speakers from the shelf," she said. "Quick."

Sherlock found a set and opened the box as he returned to her, handing her one of them as he arrived. Rose plugged it in and turned it on, only to hear a sound that haunted her nightmares.

"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"

Sherlock put a hand on Rose's shoulder as she paled.

"That, I suppose, makes things very simple," she said, and her voice was hard and cold as granite.

Sherlock did not ask what she meant. He would never have said it aloud, but he was afraid. Afraid of the Daleks and afraid of this cold, angry Rose.

She stood, dislodging Sherlock's hand and strode out of the electronics shop and into the street. She did not check that Sherlock was following- she knew he was. As they stood in the street, a saucer-like ship swooped down over the rooftops- from every television screen, oncoming death screamed. Their weapons began firing indiscriminately. Rose grabbed Sherlock's hand, and they ran for their lives, ducking and weaving through alleys, dodging destruction and panicking people alike.

They cut through a series of back gardens to find themselves on a street where an old man with what appeared to be a paintball gun was being menaced by a Dalek.

"MY VISION IS NOT IMPAIRED," the creature shrieked.

A middle-aged blonde woman yelled at the old man. "I warned you, Dad!"

"HOSTILITY WILL NOT BE TOLERATED! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"

"Kill it," Rose ordered Sherlock, ice in her voice.

He glanced at her, then aimed the plasma cannon at the creature which continued to shriek and cut off its last 'exterminate.' The old man stared at the pair of them in shock.

"Do you want to trade?" he asked, holding up his paintball gun.

Without the distraction of the Dalek, Rose recognized him. "You're Donna Noble's family, right?"

The old man (Wilfred, Rose thought) nodded.

"I'm Rose Tyler, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We need your help."

Wilfred nodded again, and gestured down the street, presumably toward his own house, but the blonde woman interrupted.

"How do you know who we are? Who the hell are you?"

Rose and Sherlock exchanged a look in surprise.

"Rose Tyler," Rose said, pointing to herself and speaking slowly, as though the woman were stupid. She then pointed to her companion. "Sherlock Holmes. And you're Donna's family. Donna Noble. Most important person in all of creation?"

"Donna?" the woman spat in disbelief.

"Yes," Sherlock sneered, "Donna. You'll remember her, yes? Very brave, very clever, rather strident, but a good heart?"

"That's my girl," Wilfred said, and both Rose and Sherlock smiled at him.

"We need to get off the street," Rose said. She glanced at the blonde woman. "Sylvia Noble?" At her nod, Rose turned to the old man. "Wilfred Mott?"

"Call me Wilf."

"Lead on, Wilf."

He did so, taking the lead like the soldier he was. Rose and Sherlock fell into step on either side of him, and Sylvia was left to bring up the rear.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Wilf asked, turning to the man at his side. "Your parents liked those stories then?"

Sherlock was about to lie and tell him 'yes' when Rose interrupted.

"Nope, this is the real thing. Sherlock Holmes of myth, inspiration for Conan Doyle's stories."

"But," Wilf said, frowning, "Sherlock Holmes wasn't a real person. He was based on several people."

"That's right," Rose said, cheerfully. "In this universe, anyway. In another, he is a man who solves mysteries in 21st century London and is helping me find the Doctor and Donna to save the multiverse."

Sherlock felt a warmth in his chest at the pride in Rose's voice.

"You're mad, you know that?" Sylvia announced from behind them. "Completely barmy."

"Yeah, a bit," Rose agreed. Sylvia didn't seem to have anything to say to that.

Wilfred led them to a neat little house on the end of the street and into a kitchen that was nearly painfully neat and rigorously decorated. It looked like something out of a designer's catalogue and set Rose's teeth on edge.

"When was the last time you heard from Donna?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat at the table and propping his feet against the wall, knowing that it would irritate the woman whose kitchen this was. As he had suspected she would, Sylvia sent a nasty glare at his shoes that he actively ignored.

"Well, I tried calling her tonight, but I can't get through," Wilf sounded almost frantic over his granddaughter. "She's still with the Doctor, I know that much and… the last time she phoned it… it was from a planet called Midnight, made of diamonds."

"What the hell are you on about?" Sylvia asked, bustling about with tea as though the world were not ending outside the windows.

"Look," Wilf shouted, standing up and facing down his daughter, "she's out there, sweetheart! Your daughter! She's travelling the stars with that Doctor. She always has been."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sylvia dismissed.

Sherlock saw Rose narrow her eyes at Donna's mother, and he placed a hand over hers on the table to keep her still. Now was not the time for a fight.

"Oh come on, open your eyes." Wilf was angry now and Sherlock was impressed with the old man. "Look at the sky. Look at the… look at the Daleks! You can't start denying things now."

"Look," Rose's voice cut across them, and the command in her tone straightened both of their spines, "if we can't find Donna, then we can't find the Doctor and everything is lost." She frowned, and turned to Sherlock, her voice losing much of its certainty and, for the first time, she sounded scared. "Where is he?" she asked.

The kitchen fell silent for a long moment at Rose's fear. Even the two people who did not know her seemed to sense the weight of hopelessness that would have snuffed out the light in the brave woman before them.

Sherlock wanted to give comfort, but his options were restricted in the presence of Sylvia Noble and Wilfred Mott. He reached his hand out to take hers- the most he felt comfortable with around the two relative strangers- but his movements were arrested by the shrill of the kettle on the stove.

Everyone in the kitchen jumped and seemed to emerge from their reverie.

"Into the sitting room with you all," Sylvia blustered, shooing them all out of the kitchen. "I'll bring you tea."

When Sherlock, Rose and Wilf were in the living room and Sylvia in the kitchen, Rose let out a slightly hysterical giggle.

"Having a picnic while the world comes to an end. Very British."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and she shook her head.

"Something Mickey said once," she explained as she sank onto a chair.

Sherlock took the chair opposite her, and Wilf sat on the sofa. When Sylvia came in a moment later with steaming mugs for everyone, she took the seat next to her father who wrapped a protective arm around her and placed a kiss in her hair. Sherlock wished he could do the same for the younger blonde woman across from him, but he held himself still.

Outside the window, they could hear the Daleks trundling down the road, shrieking orders at anyone they found outside of the house.

"YOU WILL OBEY DALEK INSTRUCTION WITHOUT QUESTION. YOU WILL OBEY YOUR DALEK MASTERS."

The laptop that was sitting open and dark on the coffee table let out a weird noise- beeping loudly. Sherlock and Rose both dove for the device to see what it was. Before either of them touched it, the screen lit with television static and white noise came from the speakers, finally coalescing into a voice.

"Can anyone hear me? The subwave network is open, you should be able to hear my voice."

Rose and Sherlock shared a surprised look.

"Is anyone there?" the voice asked.

"I know that voice," Rose breathed.

"Of course you do," Sherlock said. "It's Harriet Jones."

"This message is of the utmost importance. We haven't much time. Can anyone hear me? Captain Jack Harkness, shame on you."

"Jack…" Rose moaned. Sherlock understood- they had mourned that man's loss only a few days before.

The picture formed of Harriet Jones in a jumper and jeans sitting in a computer chair, obviously speaking to her computer.

"What? Who is that?" Jack's voice came from the speakers now.

Harriet Jones held up a small wallet with her ID card in it. "Harriet Jones, former Prime Minister."

"Yeah," Jack chuckled. "I know who you are."

"Harriet, Jack, it's me!" Rose shouted to the monitor. She picked up the computer to look it over and turned to Wilf and Sylvia. "Have you got a webcam?"

"No, she won't let me. She said they're naughty," Wilf said, gesturing to Sylvia.

"Can't talk to her then, can we?" Rose said, dejected.

"Sarah Jane Smith, 13 Bannerman Road," Harriet barked. "Are you there?"

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm here! It's me!" Sarah's voice gasped after a moment.

"Good," Harriet said, then continued in a slightly distracted voice, "now let's see if we can talk to each other."

She reached forward and started pressing buttons with the awkwardness of someone who preferred not to use computers if they could avoid it, but when they must they made certain that they did it correctly. After a moment, the screen split into four- Jack, Gwen and Ianto in one corner, Harriet in the second, Sarah Jane and Luke in the third, static in the fourth.

"Jack," Rose moaned. "Sarah."

Sherlock reached out silent fingertips to touch the faces of people he had mourned or buried. His face was stoic and his hand steady, but his mind was screaming in agony.

Unaware of the turmoil they were causing in Chiswick, Harriet and the others continued.

"The fourth contact seems to be having some trouble getting through."

"That's us," Rose said, uselessly to the screen. "That's us, Harriet!"

"I'll just boost the signal." Harriet pressed a few more buttons and the fourth corner resolved itself into Martha Jones's face dressed in a UNIT uniform.

"Martha!" Rose and Sherlock cried just as Jack, Gwen and Ianto said the same.

"But I want to get through," Rose complained.

"Martha, where are you?" Jack asked.

"I guess Project Indigo was more clever than we thought. One second I was in Manhattan, next second… Maybe Indigo tapped into my mind, because I ended up in the one place that I wanted to be. But all of a sudden it's like… the laptop turned itself on?"

"That was me," Harriet said and flashed her ID again. "Harriet Jones, former Prime Minister."

"Yeah," Martha said with a smile. "I know who you are."

"I thought it was about time we all met," Harriet continued, ignoring this last, "given the current crisis. Torchwood, this is Sarah Jane Smith."

"I've been following your work," Jack said with a winning smile that made Sarah Jane blush subtly. "Nice work with the Slitheen."

"Yeah, well," Sarah Jane was slightly flustered, but rallied well. "I've been staying away from you lot. Too many guns." She nodded towards Luke in explanation.

"All the same." Jack shrugged. "Might I say, looking good ma'am."

This time Sarah Jane did blush. "Really? Oh."

"Stop it, Jack," Rose murmured, knowing he couldn't hear her.

"Not now, Captain," Harriet ordered, wearily. "And Martha Jones, former companion to the Doctor."

"And Rose Tyler, same," Rose muttered.

"They can't hear you, you know," Sherlock snarked.

"I'm perfectly aware, and I wish they could, damnit."

"But how did you find me?" Martha asked.

"Good question," Rose said.

"Considering you're dead, it shouldn't have even known to look for you," Sherlock said. "Unless it's here looking for Donna."

"Dead?" Sylvia asked.

"Not now," Rose said, eyes on the screen before her.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, this is a subwave network," Harriet was saying. "A sentient piece of software programmed to seek out anyone and everyone who can help to contact the Doctor."

"What if the Daleks can hear us?" Martha asked nervously.

"No, that's the beauty of the subwave. It's undetectable."

"And you invented it?" Sarah Jane asked.

"I developed it. It was created by the Mr. Copper Foundation."

"Yeah, but what we need right now is a weapon," Jack said, smile sliding off his face and a serious commander of men in his place. "Martha, back there at UNIT, what did they give you? What was that key thing?"

"The Osterhagen Key," Martha said.

Rose frowned. She had never heard of such a thing. She turned to Sherlock, who shook his head as well.

"That key is not to be used, Doctor Jones. Not under any circumstances," Harriet ordered. She sounded both angry and scared, and Rose wondered what this device was to have Harriet Jones so on-edge.

"But what is an Osterhagen Key?" Jack asked.

"Forget about the key! And that's an order," Harriet barked. "All we need is the Doctor."

"Oh, excuse me, Harriet?" This was Sarah Jane, finally speaking up. "But well, the thing is… if you're looking for the Doctor… didn't he depose you?"

Rose glanced away from the screen, even then a bit ashamed of her part in the deposition of Harriet Jones.

"He did." There was an odd note of pride in Harriet's voice, though it was buried behind weariness. "And I've wondered about that for a long time, whether I was wrong. But I stand by my actions to this day, because I knew… I knew that one day, the Earth would be in danger and the Doctor would fail to appear. I told him so myself, and he didn't listen."

"But I've been trying to find him. The Doctor's got my phone on the TARDIS, but I can't get through," Martha said, pulling out a mobile phone and showing it.

"That's a clever thought," Rose murmured. "Leave the Doctor with your phone so you can bring him back. Well done, Martha."

"Shh," Sherlock hissed.

Harriet Jones spoke again. "That's why we need the subwave- to bring us all together. Combined forces. The Doctor's secret army."

"I think he'd actually hate that," Rose murmured and Sherlock poked her to be quiet.

"Wait a minute," Jack said, and it was like the dawn breaking across his face. "We boost the signal! That's it! We transmit that telephone number through Torchwood itself, using all the power of the rift!"

"And we've got Mr. Smith!" Luke added.

Rose smiled. Sarah Jane had explained her sentient computer which had taken the place of K9 when he'd had to leave.

"He can link up with every telephone exchange on Earth," Luke continued. "Billions of phones calling out, all at once!"

"Brilliant," Sherlock breathed at the same time Jack laughed it out.

"Who's the kid?" Jack asked.

"That's my son," Sarah Jane said with a grin at the boy.

Sherlock felt a heat behind his eyes looking at the pair of them. He'd seen them dead, had buried them, and had mourned them and it felt difficult to breath, seeing them happy and together and alive again. Rose took his hand and he glanced at her and noticed that her eyes shone suspiciously bright as well.

"Excuse me. Sorry." Ianto pushed past Jack to the screen. Rose smiled at the familiar face. "Sorry. Hello. Ianto Jones. Um… if we start transmitting, then the subwave network is going to become… visible. I mean… to the Daleks."

"Yes, and they'll trace it back to me. But my life doesn't matter. Not if it saves the Earth." Harriet's voice was resigned, and Rose sat back at her assertion.

Jack seemed overcome as well. He straightened and gave Harriet Jones a salute as Rose had only seen him give the Doctor.

"Ma'am," he said, voice just a bit shaky.

"Thank you, Captain," she said with a small smile. "But there are people out there dying. On the streets."

"Ah, marvellous woman. I voted for her," Wilf said from behind Sherlock.

"You did not," Sylvia objected.

"Now, enough of words. Let's begin," Harriet said.

All of the people on the screen hopped into action. Rose felt helpless watching them.

"Gods," she muttered, clenching her fists. "I wish I had a phone. I could do _something_."

Before her eyes appeared a familiar hand with a mobile phone held in its long fingers. Rose glanced at the owner of the hand.

"You brought your mobile?" she asked Sherlock.

He raised a single eyebrow at her as though the answer was obvious and, if she'd thought about it, it was. He was never without it in their world, he wouldn't intentionally leave it behind- it was an extension of his mind.

Rose took the phone in one hand and reached the other into her jacket pocket to retrieve the sonic screwdriver with which she had come away from the second timeline. She checked the setting and ran the whirring blue beam over the mobile phone, as she'd seen the Doctor do once as they'd watched her world's last moments. These phones always seemed to get their upgrades as the world died, she thought idly.

She listened as the teams on the computer passed orders and commands back and forth to each other and smiled. They were going to get the Doctor. Together, they were going to save the world.

Rose idly handed the screwdriver to Sherlock as she dialled the number from the screen- not the number to the TARDIS phone, which she still knew by heart, but Martha Jones' number in this universe. Sherlock did not comment as he slid the device into the inside pocket of his jacket though, were he honest, his heart was aching as he watched her. Her mind and heart were aimed at the Doctor as her true North. He was a secondary concern- a man to carry the gun that she would not.

"Calling… the Doctor," the voice of Sarah Jane's computer said.

"So am I," Rose murmured, pressing 'send.'

"And… sending!" Jack cried.

Sylvia and Wilf pulled out their own phones and dialled the same number.

"I think we've got a fix!" Jack cried.

"Mr. Smith now at two-hundred percent!" Sarah Jane yelled over the sounds of whirring and sparking. "Come on, Doctor," she growled.

Rose stood, watching her phone and prayed as she had not done since she was a child. "Find me, Doctor," she breathed. "Find me."

Sherlock stayed knelt on the floor in front of the computer, but his eyes were on her. He felt a fissure forming over his heart as she watched her phone with the reverence of a supplicant at the feet of their god.

"Harriet," Ianto's voice came from the computer, and Rose turned back to it, setting the mobile down on the table and kneeling beside Sherlock again. "A source has locked onto your location. They've found you."

"I know. I'm using the network to mask your transmission. Keep going!"

With a scream of "EXTERMINATE!" and a crash, the Daleks found Harriet.

"Captain," she said, "I'm transferring the subwave network to Torchwood. You're in charge, now. And tell the Doctor from me: he chose his companions well. It has been an honour."

Harriet's quarter of the screen went dark then.

"No," Rose whispered, the Doctor forgotten. "Gods, not Harriet."

Sherlock reached over to touch her hand in comfort and found his bound in a death grip with hers. Martha and Jack were silent and shocked on the computer screen. For a long moment, the world seemed to still in mourning for Harriet Jones, the former Prime Minister.

Then, with a buzz and a crackle, the Doctor appeared on the screen in the centre, Donna Noble at his back, both grinning.

Jack laughed. "Where the hell have you been? Doctor, it's the Daleks."

Martha, Gwen, Ianto, and Sarah Jane all began to talk over each other, all repeating that the Daleks were taking people away- some kind of experiment.

Sylvia pointed at the screen. "But that's Donna!"

"That's my girl!" Wilf exclaimed.

Rose did not respond. Her eyes had not left the Doctor's face on the screen, and her hand had not loosened its grip on Sherlock's. He looked at her, and found her pale and unsmiling. Her eyes were dry, and Sherlock could not determine what was going on in her clever head.

"Sarah Jane!" the Doctor cried. "Who's that boy? That must be Torchwood. Aren't they brilliant?"

Rose's lips lifted into a half-smile. "More brilliant than you could possibly imagine, Doctor," she whispered, and leaned her head onto Sherlock's shoulder.

"That's Martha!" Donna said. "And who's… that?"

"Captain Jack. Don't!" The Doctor turned away from the screen to point a warning finger at Donna. "Just… don't."

"It's like… an outer-space Facebook," Donna observed.

Rose laughed at that.

"Everyone except Rose…" the Doctor mumbled, and Rose's laughter stopped short.

"Doctor," she whispered, lifting her head from Sherlock's shoulder, but not releasing his hand, "it's me. I came back."

The transmission cut out then and static filled the screen.

"Oi," Wilf said, frowning. "What happened?"

Then, from the speakers, a voice issued that sounded like it came from death itself. "Your voice is different, and yet, its arrogance is unchanged. Welcome… to my new Empire, Doctor. It is only fitting that you should bear witness to the resurrection and the triumph of Davros, Lord and Creator of the Dalek Race."

Sherlock looked at Rose who looked in confusion back.

"I don't know who that is," she whispered to him. "I met the Emperor of the Daleks, but not the creator…"

"Have you nothing to say," the croaking, creaking voice came again.

Then the Doctor's voice came over the waves, sounding more frightened than ever Rose had heard him. "But you were destroyed. In the very first year of the Time War, at the gates of Elysiem. I saw your command ship flying into the jaws of the Nightmare Child. I tried to save you…"

"But it took one stronger than you. Dalek Caan himself."

Then came a voice that made Rose's skin crawl. It was a Dalek voice, but it seemed to sing, like a child. "I flew into the wild and fire. I danced and died a thousand times."

"Emergency temporal shift took him back into the Time War itself," Davros continued.

"But that's impossible, the entire War is time-locked."

"And yet, he succeeded. Oh, it cost him his mind, but imagine- a single, simple Dalek succeeded where Emperors and Time Lords have failed. A testament, don't you think, to my remarkable creations?"

"And you made a whole new race of Daleks."

"I gave myself to them. Quite literally. Each one grown from a cell of my own body. New Daleks. True Daleks. I have my children, Doctor. What do you have now?"

"After all this time… everything we saw, everything we lost… I have one thing to say to you." The Doctor sounded like he might cry, and then, with a sudden burst of manic energy, he shouted the next. "BYE!"

Rose snapped the laptop shut. She moved through the Noble's house, hand caught in Sherlock's and unwilling to let go, forcing him to jog behind her to keep up.

"We're going to find him," she said as she dragged him out into the churning night.

"How?" he asked.

Rose grinned at him. "Hand me the screwdriver," she said, holding out a hand.

He did so and she ran that warbling beam over… the dimension cannon return switch.

"Won't that keep us from getting home?"

"Might do, but some things are more important, yeah?" She handed the screwdriver back to him when she was done and turned to Sylvia and Wilf. "Right, we're going to go find him! Wish us luck!"

"Oh, good luck," Sylvia cried.

"Good luck, sweetheart," Wilf said.

The pair of them jumped away in a blinding flash of blue light.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose and Sherlock landed in a London street that looked, terrifyingly, like the London streets they had left behind in the other universe. It was empty, trash-strewn, and it spoke of some tragedy.

Rose, who had maintained a punishing grip on Sherlock's hand to that point could not take in their surroundings, her eyes were locked on the tall, thin man in the brown suit talking to the red-headed woman beside the old blue police public call box at the end of the road.

"Think, Donna. When you met Rose in the parallel world, what did she say?"

"It wasn't just her though, Doctor, there was a bloke too."

"Mickey?" the Doctor asked.

"Why don't you ask them yourself?" Donna was looking over the Doctor's shoulder and had seen what the Time Lord had not.

The Doctor turned and, finally, Rose met his eyes. She saw the smile that spread across his face, and could feel the answering one that grew on her own. Without thinking, planning, or any conscious decision-making on her part, she dropped Sherlock's hand and took off running for the Doctor just as he started sprinting towards her.

The street seemed to be miles long instead of a few dozen metres. They were nearly to one-another when Rose heard a heart-stopping noise.

"EXTERMINATE!" a Dalek's voice screamed, and Rose pulled up to stop, but its top half exploded in a shower of sparks before it could do more than level its blaster at the Doctor.

Rose had half turned to thank Sherlock for saving her when the Doctor's arms were around her, his face buried in her hair, and all thoughts that were not of that man were extinguished from her mind.

Sherlock held his hot plasma cannon and watched Rose in the Doctor's arms with an impassive expression on his face. His eyes had turned to ice. The fissure in his heart had widened to a crevasse or a canyon. He felt the pull of the swirling dark madness at the centre of it and, with an effort, held himself away. There was a universe to save before he could give in, and Sherlock Holmes knew his duty.


	35. The Truth

**The response to yesterday's chapter was completely overwhelming. You guys are entirely too lovely for me to say, and I know it isn't much, but I'd like to thank you all. Nearly every response I've received, I've tried to respond to, and I like to think that I've become friends with some of you. I'm so glad that I got to meet you through this story, and I hope you stick around for what's coming, because there are things coming. **

**Enough being sappy, however. It's finally here, the moment you've all been waiting for. You're really all far too patient with me, tormenting you with all of this.**

**Hope it's worth the wait.**

* * *

Sherlock had been so focused on Rose and the Doctor (and the Dalek) that he had not noticed Jack Harkness appearing at his shoulder until the man spoke.

"Good shot, whoever you are. Can't imagine he'd have liked to regenerate at a moment like this."

At the sound of his voice, Rose started to wriggle from the Doctor's grip. The Doctor let her go reluctantly and she turned to smile at the handsome Captain, eyes shining.

"Jack."

"Rosie."

The pair of them ran for each other, and Captain Harkness, as was his wont, dipped her back into an extravagant kiss.

Sherlock glanced at the Doctor to gauge his reaction to this behaviour, only to find himself the subject of those ageless, fathomless eyes.

Sherlock had never before been met with a stare that so completely unnerved him as the Doctor's. It was not simply his great age (whatever the man's body said, his eyes told the truth, as all eyes did in Sherlock's experience); there was power behind those eyes, and knowledge.

"Oh stop it, Jack."

Rose's voice broke the tension between the two men with a snap that Sherlock imagined was audible. The Doctor's smile lit his face again and his eyes were back on his companions.

"Perhaps we should get to safety," Sherlock said, glancing about the street, unable to look at Rose without wanting to punch a wall. "This is hardly the place for tearful reunions."

"Right! Of course!" the Doctor said, as though the thought had never occurred to him. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "Into the TARDIS everyone!"

The Doctor took Rose's hand and led the way into the timeship, leaving Jack, Donna and Sherlock to follow the pair.

Jack sent Sherlock a sidelong look that the younger man refused to acknowledge and Donna glared slightly after the Doctor's form as it disappeared into the TARDIS. Donna and Jack followed the pair into the ship, and Sherlock took up the rear.

"So… I don't know if you've met… well… at least… not in the main timeline, anyway. Rose, this is Donna Noble," the Doctor blathered, never letting go of Rose's hand and gesturing with the other to his ginger companion as she entered the ship.

Rose extracted her hand from the Doctor's and hugged Donna. "It's an absolute honour," she said to the other woman, respect, affection, and earnestness ringing through her voice.

"The same," Donna said, grinning. "You're like a legend. I'm so glad I'm finally getting to meet you."

The Doctor bounced after Rose, as though unwilling to be too far away from her for any length of time. "And of course there's Jack, you know Jack, of course you know Jack. You two were snogging in the street a moment ago, after all. Good to have you back, Jack. The TARDIS is getting used to you, so that's always good."

Rose frowned at Captain Jack, looking for an explanation. Jack shook his head and mouthed the word "later."

"And you," the Doctor said, finally turning to Sherlock. "I'm afraid I don't know who you are, but you saved us, and that's a lot so thank you, and welcome to the TARDIS. Any friend of Rose's is a friend of mine. And my ship, naturally. Bigger on the inside, you see, but you seem to be taking that well, aren't you?"

Rose stepped in, cutting across the Doctor's babbling quite effectively. "Actually, Doctor, you'll love this. You too, Jack and Donna. Something to tell the grandchildren about."

Rose crossed to Sherlock, who was standing just outside of the circle of conversation. She took his arm gently and pulled him in.

"This," she said, and grinned up at Sherlock as though she were about to impart a great joke, "is Sherlock Holmes."

There were two beats of stunned silence.

Typically, the Doctor broke it. "What?" he shouted.

"Sherlock Holmes, Doctor," Rose deadpanned. "Surely you've read the stories? Wonderful stuff- Sherlock and his flatmate, Dr. John Watson solve crimes and irritate the metropolitan police force, and his brother single-handedly runs most of Europe."

"England," Sherlock corrected.

"Knowing Mycroft, he'll have taken over France and Germany by the time we get back," Rose said.

Sherlock's heart thudded at that- the idea that they would be going back, and together. The Doctor's eyes narrowed at the pair of them as well, standing close together, a comfortable unit.

He seemed to shake himself clear of that and began beaming and babbling again. "Well, this is a red-letter day. Old enemies coming back from the dead and literary heroes walking about alive. Are you telling me, Rose Tyler, that we spent nearly 24 hours in a universe that had a living, breathing Sherlock Holmes in it, and we never met him? I mean, sure, we were distracted by your dad and the Cybermen and all, but to miss out on Sherlock Holmes? I can't believe it."

Sherlock noted that it must be a skill quickly learned by companions of the Doctor to tune out his babble, for both Donna and Jack had clearly stopped listening halfway through this monologue and were looking at Sherlock quite impressed.

"I should have known you'd never be just anyone, not for Rosie," Jack said with a grin. "She always did have good taste."

"Funny," Donna said, looking Sherlock over critically. "I always imagined Sherlock Holmes much older. You're all right. Do you have a brother?"

"Weren't you listening?" Jack asked with a grin. "He runs most of England."

"Oh, a politician. Not interested," Donna dismissed with a wave of her hand, then she turned to Jack and stuck out her hand. "Since Himself is unlikely to think to introduce us properly, I'm Donna Noble."

"Captain Jack Harkness," Jack said with a grin. "But you can call me Jack. You too," he added to Sherlock with a grin.

"I might just take you up on that," Donna said, looking Jack over speculatively.

"Stop it, you two," the Doctor called from his position on the other side of the Time Rotor, to which he had dragged Rose.

"We were just saying hello," both Donna and Jack asserted, and the Doctor rolled his eyes.

"I like you, Donna Noble," Rose said with a grin.

Suddenly the lights in the TARDIS went out.

"They've got us. Power's gone… some kind of chronon loop!" the Doctor cried, swinging around the console like a dervish. Rose, Donna, Jack and Sherlock moved out of the way of his crazily flailing arms and legs.

After a moment, the TARDIS tipped and shuddered. Sherlock snaked an arm around Rose's waist to hold her steady

"They're transporting us!" the Doctor said, trying to get the monitor to show the exterior of the ship. "Where are they taking us?"

"There's a massive Dalek ship at the centre of the planets," Jack explained. "They're calling it the Crucible. Guess that's our destination."

"You said these planets were like an engine," Donna said to the Doctor. "But what for?"

The Doctor looked up at her, and seemed to notice that Sherlock and Rose were standing together again- Rose held protectively against his chest.

"Rose," he cried out, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward himself and away from Sherlock. "You've been in a parallel world. That world's running ahead of this universe. You've seen the future, what was it?"

Rose looked very serious for the first time since they had found the Doctor again. "It's the darkness," she said, simply.

"The stars were going out," Donna said, as though she were just remembering.

"In the other world… our world- my world," Sherlock amended, knowing it was more accurate, but hating the way the words lay heavy on his tongue, "the stars were going out one by one. It started too far away to see, but as it got closer to Earth, it began to cause panic."

"We dug this old… experiment out of storage. See… I'd started the team working on it before… before the last time I saw you," Rose said, glancing away from the Doctor, and shifting slightly toward Sherlock again. The Doctor grabbed her hand and put a fingertip under her chin to raise her eyes to his again.

Sherlock recognized the move, having done it himself a time or two. It made his heart ache and freeze again to see Rose look into the Doctor's eyes as she had so often looked into his.

"I… I originally built it so that I could… could come back. But you said it was impossible, so it got put into storage. Then… well, the universe was ending, and it seemed like the moment to do the impossible."

"You brilliant thing you," the Doctor breathed, looking deep into her eyes.

Sherlock nearly buckled under the weight of the Doctor's devotion to her that was carried on those words. Even if she'd wanted to, how could Rose resist that kind of love, he wondered. And how could she want to?

Sherlock swallowed hard and continued Rose's story. "We- Mickey, Rose and I- started jumping, following the TARDIS through time. We started in Pompeii," he glanced back at Jack who nodded, "found ourselves in Shakespeare's London, Dickens' Cardiff and…" here Sherlock hesitated and made sure he had the Doctor's attention before continuing, "Louis XV's France."

The Doctor's eyes slid away from Sherlock's and the younger man felt some pleasure at his discomfort.

"We kept going forward in time, following the TARDIS, the three of us," Sherlock continued. "But at Christmas 2007 we were separated. Rose and I ended up in a timeline where the Doctor died under the Thames that night and Mickey… I suppose he ended up in the other."

"We spent a year building a time machine so that Donna could save you," Rose concluded, and her voice was colder toward the Doctor than Sherlock had yet heard it.

The old alien did not meet her eyes, but he did find Sherlock's and glared. Sherlock did not bend under the heated glare of the Doctor, however. He knew what Rose had gone through at the Time Lord's hand.

There was a quiet unease in the console room then until the TARDIS jolted again, having apparently reached its destination.

The Doctor was, again, galvanized. He leapt onto the grating surrounding the console and pulled the monitor around to determine where they were.

"The Dalek Crucible. All aboard…" he murmured, looking at the screen.

There was a scream from outside the door. "DOCTOR! YOU WILL STEP FORTH OR DIE!"

The Doctor stared at the door for a very long moment. "We'll have to go out. 'Cause if we don't, they'll get in."

"You told me nothing could get through those doors," Rose said, and for the first time she sounded truly terrified.

"You've got extrapolator shielding," Jack added, his usual joviality gone in a flash.

The Doctor turned to his two companions with an uncharacteristic weight on his face. For the first time, Sherlock could see the man he had been (the one with the cold eyes and large ears) in the youthful face.

"The last time we fought the Daleks, they were scavengers and hybrids and mad. But this is a fully-fledged Dalek Empire… at the height of its power. Experts at fighting TARDISes, they can do anything. Right now that wooden door… is just wood."

Jack paled, and Rose took a step backward from the Doctor. She bumped into Sherlock's chest and remained there. Sherlock wondered if she had subconsciously sought him for comfort, or if it had been random.

Jack turned to Rose. "What about your dimension-jump? Could it get us out?"

Rose took out the button and clicked it, showing that it didn't work. "I broke it to get to the TARDIS this last time."

"What about your vortex manipulator, Jack?" the Doctor asked.

"The power went down with the TARDIS'," Jack answered, shaking his head.

Rose had stepped away from Sherlock to join in the conversation of options. Donna noticed, as no one else had, the way that Sherlock seemed to lean into her, no matter where she stood, like iron filings toward a magnet. She stepped toward him and placed a hand on his arm, making him jump.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly, so as not to be overheard by the three arguing at the door.

"I'm always all right," Sherlock said without thinking.

"He says that too," Donna said, nodding toward the Doctor. "And it means 'no.'"

Sherlock did not answer because the argument at the door had ended.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said to the room at large, "there's nothing else we can do."

From outside the door, a voice issued again. "SURRENDER, DOCTOR, AND FACE YOUR DALEK MASTERS."

"Daleks," Rose said, and there was an edge of hysteria in her voice.

"Oh, God!" Jack said, laughing as well.

Rose's eyes turned to Sherlock, and he could see the light of adventure and madness in them. It was a sensation that he well knew- the rush of blood in the veins, the pump of adrenaline, the way one felt more alive than ever when one stared the reaper down. It scared him to see, but he could not begrudge her it.

"It's been good though, hasn't it?" the Doctor asked, looking around at all of them. "All of us… all of it… everything we did." He looked at Donna then. "You were brilliant." He turned to Jack. "And you were brilliant." He turned to Rose, and his voice deepened, softened, and became a caress. "And you were brilliant."

Rose's answering smile was beautiful, and Sherlock's heart stopped again.

The Doctor turned to the door, straightened his shoulders and gave them his final word on the matter. "Blimey." He opened the doors to wave after wave of Daleks.

"DALEKS REIGN SUPREME! ALL HAIL THE DALEKS! DALEKS REIGN SUPREME! ALL HAIL THE DALEKS!"

Rose, Jack and the Doctor walked out the door. Donna remained beside Sherlock.

"It's funny," Donna observed. "Rose Tyler inspires such loyalty. You, Jack, the Doctor… you'd all follow her into Hell if you could."

"And it looks like I'm about to do just that."

"And is she worth it?" Donna asked. She sounded like a woman who knew the answer to the question, but wanted to hear the other person admit it.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. If he was bound to die- and it did seem that he was- he would die with his confession made.

"Completely. Rose Tyler is worth all of it," he said, looking into those green eyes that saw so much and were always so brave.

"Thought so," she said with a nod. "Let's go then. No safer in here than it is out there, like the Doctor said."

With that, she grabbed his arm and pulled him across the console room to the open door.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose stood outside the door to the TARDIS, flanked by Jack and the Doctor, the sum total of her nightmares rising around her, screaming.

"DALEKS REIGN SUPREME! ALL HAIL THE DALEKS! DALEKS REIGN SUPREME! ALL HAIL THE DALEKS!"

She reached her hand back for Sherlock's only to find that he was not there. She turned to see the TARDIS doors slamming shut with him and Donna inside.

"Sherlock?" she cried.

"Doctor?" Donna shouted.

"It wasn't me, I didn't do anything!" the Doctor insisted.

"Rose?" Sherlock called through the door. "Let us out! Rose!"

"Sherlock!" Rose screamed, tugging at the door handle that remained shut.

The Doctor turned to the Supreme Dalek and demanded an explanation.

"THIS IS NOT OF DALEK ORIGIN!"

Rose crossed the room to the Doctor's side. "You let them out," she said, her voice low and dangerous, eyes glowing gold.

"THIS IS TIME LORD TREACHERY!"

"Me?" the Doctor asked, incredulous. "The door just closed on its own."

"NEVERTHELESS: THE TARDIS IS A WEAPON AND IT WILL BE DESTROYED!"

Rose heard something behind her and turned to see the TARDIS disappear into a trapdoor.

"Sherlock!" she screamed, and it was like the word had been ripped from the centre of her heart.


	36. Most Important

**Yesterday was, again, overwhelming. Here's hoping that you like today's installment as much.**

* * *

Donna and Sherlock grabbed the console railing as they were tossed about.

"Doctor!" Donna shouted.

Sherlock remained silent, but hung on for dear life. He gritted his teeth against the toss and tumble and even had the presence of mind to grab Donna about the waist when they landed with a sickening thud.

Across the console room, a glass jar with a hand in it fell against the wall and shattered. Fluid spilled over the grating and dripped beneath and the hand lay obscene and macabre on the floor. Sherlock ignored the sight, used to such things as he was, but Donna kept giving it wary looks as Sherlock pulled her upright and ran for the console. Looking at the monitor, he saw that they were surrounded by what appeared to be molten lava.

"No, no, NO!" Sherlock growled, slamming his hand against the side of the monitor. "They said we didn't have any shields. We're going to be destroyed!"

"What?" Donna asked, rushing up to his side. "But... the TARDIS can survive anything! The Doctor said..."

"Use your eyes, woman!" Sherlock shouted at her. "Look there." He pointed at the screen where the TARDIS was sinking, slowly into the mass. "She's burning. You can even feel the temperature rising in here. We're going to die if we can't get out of this."

"But... but we'd have to fly the TARDIS."

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, turning to her and grasping her shoulders. "Yes, we'll fly the TARDIS. Do you know how?"

"Well... the Doctor had started teaching me but... no... not really."

"He was teaching you, yes, but you also saw him," Sherlock said. He kept his hands on her shoulders spun her as he was incapable of keeping still. He kept her eyes locked on his as he moved. "You watched him fly this ship over and over, maybe hundreds of times, right?"

"Yeah," Donna said, sounding terrified. "Yeah, I saw it, but I don't know how he did it. He didn't explain it or anything."

"No!" Sherlock shouted again, and Donna flinched. "He didn't explain, but you saw, Donna Noble. You saw and your clever eyes can remember. You are going to save us today, Donna. Not the legendary Sherlock Holmes. Not the Doctor, last of the Time Lords. Not Rose Tyler, the Defender of the Earth, but you. Donna Noble, daughter of Sylvia Noble and granddaughter of Wilfred Mott, do you understand me?"

"But I can't!" Donna was nearly in tears at this point, dizzy, scared, and ashamed. "I can't do it. I don't know what you think I am, but I'm just a temp from Chiswick!"

"It's you who doesn't understand," Sherlock growled, bringing his face close to hers. He transferred his hands from her shoulders to her face, cupping it and holding it still. "I can tell a temp from Chiswick from a hundred paces by the way she dresses, the way she moves, the way her shoes are worn. I can tell a CEO by their winter gloves, and I can tell a butcher by the calluses on his hands, and you, Donna Noble are no temp."

"But I am!"

"You have been a temp, but you're not. Not anymore. You don't move like a temp. You don't think like a temp. You're so much cleverer and so much wiser and so much more than a temp. You, Donna Noble, are going to be our salvation. Now close your eyes."

"But..."

"Please, Donna." Sherlock finally let her go. He leaned away from her and his entire face softened as he spoke now. "Please... I have to save Rose. We have to save the Doctor and Jack, and everyone on Earth. I know you can do it, Donna, and I am almost never wrong. Please?"

With a deep, shuddering breath, Donna nodded. Sherlock smiled at her and she gave him a shaky smile back, and then she shut her eyes.

"Tell me how he does it, Donna. How does he make her dematerialize?"

Sherlock had watched the Doctor do it once now, and he had a vague idea, though he hadn't watched with his full attention. Donna, however, just as he'd expected, had seen it done time and again and, when she reached back in her memory, she could find it, piece it together, and guide him.

One step at a time.

"The blue button. Hold it for not-quite three seconds."

"That glass ball, spin it four times, and then about ¾ of another turn."

"The bicycle pump. Five pumps."

"Those switches? To the left, except for the third and ninth. Leave those alone."

It took longer than it would have taken the Doctor, but the tell-tale sounds of the old ship's wheezing began to sound, and the normal shudder of her dematerialization sequence could be felt.

Once she quieted Sherlock checked the monitor and saw a swirl of colour and light. Donna checked over his shoulder.

"We're in the vortex," she breathed, completely surprised. "We did it!"

Sherlock turned and scooped her into a hug as wild and encompassing as one of the Doctor's at his most manic. Sherlock picked her up off the floor and swung her around with abandon.

"Donna Noble, I've never said this about anyone but myself, but you are _brilliant_," he declared.

She laughed, but after a moment, she wriggled against him. "Oi," she said, shoving at his shoulders. "Put me down, you idiot."

"Oh, right." Sherlock set her feet gently on the grate, blushing slightly on those sharp cheekbones.

"All right, Sherlock... now what? Dematerializing is the easy part, but we can't materialize without coordinates."

"Coordinates," Sherlock murmured. Rose had a list, but they were in her pocket and not of much use to them at that time. "Let's take a look and see if we can figure something out," he said, moving to the console and looking at the information. It was then that he observed what he had only seen before.

Every piece of writing on the console and the monitor were in circular geometry that was, he supposed, a language. There was a sort of mathematical beauty to it, and he suspected that it was quite logical, but without the key, it was a code he had no hope of unravelling.

"Any luck?" Donna asked, eyebrow raised.

"I assume this is the Time Lords' language?"

"That's all I can figure, yeah. He doesn't talk about it much."

"Well, not being a Time Lord, it doesn't tell me much," Sherlock admitted. He leaned back against the railing and continued. "Even if it did though, it occurs to me that I have no idea what our last coordinates were, and if we just hit a switch that returned us to our last location, we'd end up back in the lava, wouldn't we?"

"Er... yeah. I suppose so," Donna said, sounding uncertain.

Sherlock frowned into the middle distance. He needed to get back to Rose, but he needed coordinates. She'd had coordinates, but he thought they'd used the last of them, so he thought those might not be very helpful. They had come from the TARDIS at the beginning of that horrible year. They'd been a source of hope for her. A prayer. A gift.

A gift from the TARDIS.

Slowly, as though in a dream, Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew the silver and blue sonic screwdriver. He frowned at it for a long moment, and then grinned.

"Donna? Does the Doctor have his sonic screwdriver with him?"

"Yeah, probably. Always does, doesn't he?"

"Suppose the TARDIS could use this one and target to the Doctor's version?" Sherlock mused, holding up his.

Donna's eyes widened. "How the hell did you end up with one of those?" she asked.

"Gift from the TARDIS," he quoted. "Think she could do it?"

Donna's face split into a grin. "I'll just bet she can."

Sherlock returned to the console and stood, hands outstretched like a concert pianist over his keyboard.

"Have you ever noticed, Donna Noble, that a device designed for someone with two hands has a certain internal logic? Every one of them, even if the logic is not quite clear." He was simply musing as he walked about the console, looking for something that triggered a memory or an idea in his mind. "This console is less obviously logical, and is clearly pieced together from a few spare parts, but it seems to me that it is designed to be managed by no less than six drivers with two hands. Do you see that?"

Donna frowned at the console. When he put it that way, it seemed obvious. The sequence for dematerialization was chaotic from the perspective of a single driver, but with six, the internal logic fell into place. It was as though Donna's eyes had been opened- she was seeing the world anew thanks to Sherlock Holmes.

She watched Sherlock step from one side of the console to another, looking for… something. Finally, in front of the third side of the hexagon, he seemed to find whatever it was he was looking for. He grinned a wolf's grin and slid the screwdriver into a square hole that was flashing with blue and gold light. He then held his right hand over a pair of buttons.

"Yellow button, or mauve?" he mused quietly.

"Never mauve," Donna answered. "Intergalactic colour for danger."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Not red?"

"Apparently red is camp."

"Of course it is. Yellow then."

"Wait!" Donna cried, as Sherlock's long fingers reached the button. "It could kill us."

"And that is different from our current situation, how?"

"Well we'd be dead, Dumbo!"

"Yes, and Jack, the Doctor, and Rose would still be on the Dalek ship without hope."

"But, as long as we're alive…"

"We can be Schrödinger's saviours?" Sherlock asked. "I suppose so… but what's life without a bit of risk?" Without giving her time to answer, he slapped his hand down on the yellow button.

The ship began its rhythmic whine that said it was landing.

"But what are we going to do?" Donna cried.

Sherlock pulled the sonic out of its spot on the console and tossed it to Donna. He then picked up his weapon, and turned to her with a fierce smile. "I draw their fire, and you, Donna, are going to be the Doctor."

"What?"

"How does he usually handle situations like this?"

"He makes it up…" Donna said, realization dawning.

"Precisely. Do what you can. Not sure what else we can manage." Sherlock stuck out a hand. "It's been an honour."

Donna shook her head and launched herself into his arms for a hug. Sherlock was thrown slightly off-balance, but rallied quickly and returned her hug with vigour.

"Good luck," Donna whispered in his ear, and then stepped away. Sherlock nodded and threw open the door.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose, like the Doctor, had watched the screen in horror as the TARDIS had vanished with Sherlock and Donna inside. Nothing could get through the wall of ice that had stopped her heart. Even seeing Mickey and Sarah Jane on the viewscreen, even Martha's brilliant showing (and incredulous response to Rose herself). The horror of the Daleks nor the certainty of their death, nor the countdown to the end of the universe could not put a fissure in the numbness about her heart. Nothing could touch her.

Nothing but the sound of the TARDIS materializing behind her. The sound of hope.

Rose turned to see the door flung open and Sherlock silhouetted in the glow of the time rotor. Rose felt a resurgence of hope at the sight of his Byronic figure and death seemed less inevitable. Even if it was, though, Rose felt that she might be able to face it if his hand was in hers.

Sherlock swept out of the TARDIS, flapping coat and massive gun on display. He cut as dramatic a figure as ever the Doctor had done.

"Brilliant," Jack whispered, impressed.

"Time Lord treachery," Davros shouted, pointing a long, decayed-looking finger at Sherlock.

"Hardly," the detective said, sounding nearly bored. "Human ingenuity. Frankly, it's a much more powerful force than Time Lord treachery any day."

Unnoticed by the Daleks or their master, Donna crept from the TARDIS and over to a console along one of the walls. Sherlock Holmes seemed perfectly capable of holding an audience. Not even the Doctor noticed as Donna positioned herself in front of the controls.

"Control panels designed for a two-handed controller have logical layouts," Donna breathed to herself. Davros had two hands- he looked vaguely human except entirely not- and as the 'master,' 'creator,' or 'father' of the Daleks, she suspected that the panel was his.

"You will not stop the reality bomb," Davros said to Sherlock on a screech. "Kill me, and it will still go on. The Daleks will prevail!"

Reality Bomb, Donna thought. That sounded like something that would be controlled from a panel much like the one at which she stood. She looked at the console and decided that if she had something desperately important, the control for it would be...

Donna pressed a button and the entire Crucible, which had until that moment been vibrating with some malignant energy, seemed to still.

"What?" Davros cried over the chorus of Daleks screaming, "EXPLAIN!"

"You're quite right, Davros. I couldn't stop the Reality Bomb," Sherlock said with a sneer. "But she could."

Davros turned his wheeled chair around to see Donna who wiggled her fingers at him.

"Attack!" he ordered. "Kill her."

"I think not," Donna said, and she pointed the screwdriver at three different panels until the Daleks, which had been rumbling toward her, found themselves spinning in place instead.

"What are you doing, Donna?" the Doctor asked, incredulous. "You can't even change a fuse."

"No," Donna agreed. "I can't. But I do know what a computer station looks like, and I can read this one like a book. Like here?" She flipped a series of switches.

"WEAPONS NON-FUNCTIONING!"

"That, I think, will stop the Daleks being able to retaliate," she concluded smugly.

"But how?" the Doctor stuttered.

"Sherlock Holmes showed me."

Rose looked at Sherlock and grinned. "Of course he did."

Sherlock couldn't help but feel warm at the pride in her voice.

"Well come on then, Spaceman," Donna called to the Doctor. "Help me get these planets home! You too, detective-boy."

Sherlock and the Doctor joined her at the console, but not without giving each other slightly wary looks.

"Where did you get a sonic, Donna?" the Doctor asked.

"The TARDIS gave it to Rose," Sherlock explained.

"She does love our Rose, the TARDIS," the Doctor mused.

Sherlock had the distinct impression that the plural possessive that the Doctor had used did not include him, but rather the Doctor and the TARDIS. He considered replying in kind, but chose not to. Time would tell, he supposed, but he had a feeling that Rose belonged to no one.

"Press that one there, Sherlock, and then..."

"This one," Sherlock said, setting his fingers on the button the Doctor had been about to point out to him. "Yes, I know," he said, meeting the alien's challenging stare.

"That's quite enough of a pissing contest from you two," Donna said. "Let's get these planets back where they came from. There goes Pyrovillia."

"So long, Clom!" the Doctor cried.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at their antics, and glanced up. For the first time he noticed that Mickey and Sarah Jane were among the party, and they, as well as Rose and Jack, were helping to deal with the Daleks as the Doctor, Sherlock and Donna dismantled the reality bomb planet by planet.

"And there goes the Lost Moon of Poosh!" the Doctor said after a moment. "Now all that's left is..."

"Doctor," Jack called. "Something's happening."

The Crucible was trembling with ominous energy again.

"No," the Doctor muttered, looking at the console as though reading it. "No!" he shouted, slamming his hand down. "They're going to destroy it. All of it. And, naturally, the only one left is..."

"Earth," Sherlock finished. It was only natural.

"Earth," the Doctor verified.

"So stop them," Sherlock said. "End them. Finish the Time War once and for all, Doctor!"

Brown eyes met blue. "I can't," the Doctor said. "Everyone deserves a chance. I have to give them that."

"Do you?" Sherlock asked. "Because I don't."

He had seen the flashing mauve button as he'd approached the console. It was precisely where he would have put the destruct button. He'd considered it a time or two, but had held off. Now he made the choice that the Doctor was refusing to make, and pressed it.

"You..." the Doctor looked horrified. "You've killed them all."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Before they destroyed us. Have you a way of getting us and the Earth away from here, Doctor?"

That galvanized the old alien. He herded his companions and friends into the TARDIS and started shouting instructions as he placed them around the console.

"Torchwood Hub," he cried at the monitor after fiddling with it for a moment. "Can you read me?"

"Loud and clear," Gwen answered. "Is Jack there?"

The Doctor glanced at the grinning captain. "Can't get rid of him. Now, Torchwood, I want you to open up that Rift Manipulator- send all the power to me."

"Doing it now, sir," Ianto called.

"What's that for?" Martha asked.

"It's a tow-rope," the Doctor answered. "Now, Sarah Jane, what was your son's name?"

"Luke," she answered. "He's called Luke, and the computer is Mr. Smith."

"Calling Luke and Mr. Smith!" After a moment he called again. "Come on, Luke, shake a leg!"

"Is Mum there?" Luke's face appeared on the screen.

"Oh, she's fine and dandy!"

Sarah Jane laughed and nudged her way to the monitor. "Yes, yes!"

"Now, Mr. Smith, I want you to harness the Rift power and loop it 'round the TARDIS, you got that?"

"I regret that I will need access to the TARDIS basecode numerals," the computer said.

"Oh... blimey, that's gonna take awhile."

"No, no, no!" Sarah Jane cried. "Let me! K-9, out you come!"

Onto the screen trundled K-9 crying, "affirmative, Mistress!"

"Oh, good dog!" the Doctor said.

"K-9, give Mr. Smith the basecode!" Sarah Jane ordered.

"Master. TARDIS basecode now being transferred. The process is simple."

"Now then, you lot." The Doctor began moving around them, placing each one at one side of the hexagonal console. "Sarah, take that," he said. "And Mickey, hold that one." He addressed the room at large. "Do you know why this TARDIS is always rattling about the place?" He moved closer to Rose, rested a hand on her hip and pointed. "Rose, that there." He returned his attention to the group at large again. "It was designed to have six pilots and I have to do it single-handed. Martha? Keep that level. Jack? There you go, steady that. Now we can fly this thing..." The Doctor came face-to-face with Sherlock and hesitated, then directed him to the bicycle pump. "That there, Sherlock, just keep pumping it, all right?" He returned to his ramble as though he had not stopped. "Like it's meant to be flown! We've got the Torchwood Rift looped around the TARDIS by Mr. Smith. We're going to fly planet Earth back home. Right then! Off we go!"


	37. Dancing

**Those of you keeping count know that this is the second-to-last chapter of this rather enormous work.**

**It has been asked of me several times now: is this the end of This Rose is Extra? The answer is _absolutely not_! Rose still has a choice to make, but it will be her I follow, either back to Baker Street or out into the cosmos, or possibly with Jack back to Torchwood, with Sarah Jane back to original London, or any of a thousand other places! Possibly she and Donna will take the TARDIS and leave the guys behind forever.**

**There is a story that is already being written, and several more that are storyboarded, and a few others that are mostly pipe dreams at this point- fun ideas that Wholockgal and I have and enjoy discussing when our jobs get too dreary for words- so never fear, there will be more! I can't promise precisely when, but I would not anticipate more than a month or so before you start seeing regular updates again, in addition to my usual prompts and one-shots that show up on Fridays.**

**Speaking of the ever fantastic Wholockgal, she is posting a follow-up that is actually a prequel to her story Fish Tales on Fanfiction and Archive of our Own. If you haven't been reading the Swaddled 'verse, you are severely missing out.**

**Additionally, the ever spectacular Layla Crimson is still working on her piece called Finding Color both on Teaspoon and Archive of our Own. I highly recommend it.**

**As ever, I love you all and hope you enjoy this update!**

* * *

Sherlock stood back from the central console of the ship, leaning against a rough coral strut, outside of the hum of activity on the grating. They had returned Earth to its proper place in the cosmos, and there was an air of the party about the place. Mickey and the Doctor were poking fun at each other and Rose and Donna were talking softly on the other side of the glass rotor from the men. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but it made both women smile. Jack was blatantly flirting with Martha and Sarah Jane stood back and watched it all with a maternal expression.

Sherlock considered going to the older woman. They had formed a rapport in the secondary timeline, and he thought of her as a friend, but this woman had only met him a time or two. In addition, Sherlock was not sure what to say to a woman that he had seen dead, had buried, and had mourned.

As he looked around, Sherlock was struck by the realization that he had mourned the death or loss of every person in the console room, save for Rose herself (thank all the gods). Suddenly, he felt that the entire enterprise was horrifically macabre, a dance among the dead. Without thinking it through, Sherlock retreated into the bowels of the ship away from the console room that was ringing with noise.

As soon as he left the console room, Sherlock found that the noise was cut off. He walked down the hallway, not knowing what he might find (or what might find him, or even if he would be able to find his way back) until a door cracked open as he passed. Never one to leave a mystery un-investigated (it was kind of his thing, as John would have said) Sherlock entered.

It was a rather beautifully proportioned library. It reminded him of nothing so much as the library from the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast, a movie that he would never admit to watching, but had always rather enjoyed.

Sherlock considered and then moved through the room to try to find the "D" section. He had to admit his curiosity, at least in the relative safety of his own mind. He wanted to see the works of Arthur Conan Doyle.

He found the books, eventually- a small collection of beautifully-bound novels including (and here his breath stopped) _A Study in Scarlet_ and _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. There were two others, and what appeared to be a handsome anthology of short stories. The other two novels were _The Sign of Four_ and _The Valley of Fear_. Sherlock reached for this first but drew his hand back sharply as he received an electrical shock.

"Ought not," came a voice from behind him.

Sherlock whipped around and found the small, dark-haired girl that he most associated with the form the TARDIS took when she spoke leaning against the shelf behind him. "Not a good idea to know too much about the future, you see," she continued, crossing to him and looking at the shelf from his side. "You could, however, have this one." She drew _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ off the shelf, and held it out to him. "To remember us by."

Sherlock's hand trembled as he took the book from her. He looked at the cover and said, as if compelled, "I first met Rose Tyler as I investigated Baskerville."

The TARDIS smiled. "I'm not surprised. She never does anything by halves, my Arkytior."

They both looked at the book in Sherlock's hands for a long moment in silence. Then the TARDIS spoke again.

"It's funny you know. Time Lords think themselves very important. Very complicated. 'A complicated temporal event,' my Doctor calls himself. Or called himself? Or is it will call? Probably all of them, really," she concluded with a smile. "But, you see, Time Lords are wrapped up in destiny. They have much less choice in the directions their lives take than they'd like to think. The Doctor's destiny is coming for him, I fear, and he must answer to it. Humans, on the other hand… you've so much more freedom and, thus, are so much bigger on the inside. You can do anything."

Sherlock did not quite understand what the TARDIS meant, but he found that it raised something just a bit hopeful in his chest. Something that he thought had died as he had watched Rose run toward the Doctor on that dark street.

"The love story of Rose Tyler and the Doctor could be scrawled across the stars," the TARDIS said quietly, and Sherlock's heart broke. "But, like all humans, my Arkytior will burn bright and die in the end, and the Doctor will go on alone." She turned those fathomless dark eyes to him. "The love story of Rose Tyler and Sherlock Holmes could live into eternity, the stuff of legends. Do not despair, Detective. All is not lost."

Without anything else said, the little girl flicked out of existence.

For a long moment, Sherlock looked at the book in his hands. He seemed to decide something and slipped it into his pocket. He then returned to the console room.

~?~?~?~?~

When Sherlock reached the console room, he found that music had been turned on, somehow, and Rose, Jack, Donna, Martha and Mickey were dancing in a cluster. Jack detached himself from the group and grabbed Sarah Jane's hand and led her in a spirited spin about the console, and the Doctor watched it all with a contented air.

Sherlock felt brave after his talk with the TARDIS and took a place next to the Doctor, leaning against the console and watching the dancing.

The skinny man turned to him and looked him over. Sherlock had an odd feeling that he was less than impressed with what he saw, though his voice, when next he spoke, was enthusiastic.

"Sherlock Holmes! The legend."

Sherlock did not respond to this.

"I've read loads about you, I have. All the books and stories and everything. Literary analysis too. Loads of people liked to analyse your personality, you know. Those books caught people's imaginations afire, even though Conan Doyle himself hated the character."

"Mmm?" Sherlock muttered noncommittally. It sounded like it was not just Conan Doyle who would come to hate the character of Sherlock Holmes, literary or literal, but Sherlock did not comment. People had disliked him all his life.

"Oh yeah. People who say you were in love with Irene Adler. People who say you were in love with John Watson. People who say you weren't capable of falling in love at all."

Sherlock waited, as though expecting the old alien to finish. The Doctor waited as though expecting Sherlock to respond.

"Is there a question in all of that, Doctor?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Not at all," the Doctor said, flashing a not-quite-honest smile. He jumped around the console and hit a few buttons and the music changed suddenly from dance-club fare to Glen Miller's In the Mood. "Rose Tyler!" the Doctor cried. "I've just remembered. I can dance."

Rose and Jack both laughed as the Doctor danced up to the blonde girl.

"Doesn't the universe implode if the Doctor dances?" she asked.

The Doctor pulled her to him, much closer than Sherlock thought necessary. "Let's find out," he said to her and, a moment later, he met Sherlock's eyes over the top of Rose's head. Sherlock could read the challenge in them.

The Doctor led Rose in an enthusiastic dance about the console, brushing past Sherlock as they went. Rose sent Sherlock a grin every time they passed him, though the Doctor generally sent a swift glare. Donna took her place beside Sherlock and watched the pair of them as well.

"He's being an idiot," she declared, only just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear, and so he did not respond.

Once In the Mood wound down, another Glen Miller song started, this one much slower. Jack walked up behind the Doctor and tapped him on the shoulder and held out his hand for Rose's. The Doctor appeared loath to let her out of his arms, but Rose stepped into the good Captain's without hesitation, and the Doctor allowed her to go, resuming his place beside Sherlock at the console, on the other side of him from Donna.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he watched Rose and Jack dance. He and the Captain had become peculiar friends during their time in the second timeline. He felt that he knew what to expect from the other man and the fact that he was holding Rose closer than he should, leering down her top, and grinning at her wickedly did not light jealousy in Sherlock's heart. It was possibly because, every time they moved past Sherlock, the good Captain glanced up at him and sent a saucy wink his way as well.

"Oi, Spaceman, why don't you show me your moves too," Donna said, leaning around Sherlock.

The Doctor looked surprised. "You want to dance with me, Donna?"

"Not like that, you skinny streak of nothing, but this one doesn't seem like the type," she said, thrusting a thumb at Sherlock, who wisely kept his protests quiet in the face of the hot-tempered woman beside him.

"I want to dance, and you're going to dance with me, got it you Martian?"

The Doctor gave a heavy, false sigh as he moved to take Donna into his arms. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not from Mars," he complained as he swept her off.

Sherlock watched them spin away, and then saw Donna stop the Doctor, grab his ear, and pull his head down to her mouth to whisper hotly at him. The Doctor's expressive eyebrows climbed higher and higher up his face as she continued. Finally, after a few moments, he pulled himself away and responded to her. The music was too loud for Sherlock to hear what was said, but there was a lot of finger-shaking from the ginger woman, and a lot of arm-crossing and pouting from the Time Lord.

Sherlock was so involved in watching the argument that he had not noticed the music change until he felt a warm hand slide into his. He turned to see Rose standing before him, and for the first time he noticed that what was now piping over the invisible speakers was Mozart's Waltz no. 1 from the Three Waltzes as played on the violin.

"This one is yours," Rose said softly, and pulled him out to the clear space.

Sherlock could not deny her this, and when he took her into his arms, he knew that he did not want to. She simply fit into his arms and, as they set to move, they did so with more ease and grace than ever they had done before.

The rest of the console room fell away, it seemed, as Rose and Sherlock danced. In his periphery, Sherlock knew that Jack and Sarah Jane were watching the pair of them, and that Sarah had drawn a handkerchief from her pocket to dab her eyes. He knew that Mickey and Martha were still dancing together, but on the other side of the console. He knew that the Doctor was watching them with a sour look, and Donna with a smile. He knew these things in the back of his mind, but what was real and true and taking up nearly all of his perception was Rose's hand wrapped around his. Rose's legs moving against his. Rose's eyes on his. Everything he could see was Rose.

When finally the song wound down and another song did not take its place, the Doctor jumped quickly into the silence.

"Well, that was loads of fun, don't you all think? But it's time to get everyone home and safe, what do you say? 2009 London first, what do you say?"

"Yes," Sarah Jane said with a wry smile on her face. "Let's do try to avoid Aberdeen, why don't we?"

The Doctor pursed his lips as he threw the ship into the vortex and back out again. He watched the monitor and, once the ship had landed with a shudder and a whine, grinned at Sarah Jane.

"London, 2009, the morning after we left."

"You promise?"

"Would I lie to you, my Sarah Jane?" the Doctor asked.

Sarah Jane laughed and shook her head, but did not answer. She then turned to the others. "Well, come on then. Not leaving without a hug from all of you, you know!" She turned to Sherlock. "You first then, Sherlock Holmes."

She wrapped her arms around him and lifted herself onto her toes to whisper into his ear, "you take care of yourself, Sherlock. And you take care of her as well," before releasing him and lowering back to her feet leaving Sherlock slightly bewildered.

Sarah hugged Jack and Martha and Mickey as well, and then went to Rose last. As they embraced, Sarah Jane whispered to her as well. "You'll take care of that man, won't you?"

"Which one?" Rose whispered back.

"Whichever one you choose, Rose. But you will have to choose, you know."

"I do. Please don't hate me, Sarah Jane."

"Never."

Sarah released her and both women had damp eyes.

"I always told you that you were clever enough to keep up with him," she said softly to the younger woman. "I'm never wrong. Goodbye, Rose Tyler."

"Goodbye, Sarah Jane."

The Doctor walked Sarah Jane out of the TARDIS to say his own goodbye as those who remained continued to hug.

Jack dipped Rose back and planted a kiss on her mouth to make her giggle.

"You're the bravest single person I've met in a very, very long life, Rose Tyler, and you are, to this day, worth fighting for. Thanks for giving me another chance to prove it."

Martha and Rose hugged slightly awkwardly, and Martha made as though to move away quickly, but Rose grabbed her arm.

"Look… Martha… I just want to say… thanks. For… helping him. From what Donna said, you saved him, and… and it can't have been easy. I'm so sorry for who he was when you met him and… I'm sorry for the part of it that's my fault."

Martha looked at her for a long moment before breaking into a smile.

"None of it is your fault, Rose. It's him. Idiot man."

"Idiot alien."

"Same thing."

The two girls giggled and Rose let Martha walk away, comforted that they would part as friends.

Once it was only Mickey, Rose and Sherlock left in the TARDIS, the Doctor returned and with him came a palpable sense of awkwardness.

Mickey chose to break the tension. "So, boss, can you get us back?"

"'Course I can, Mickey! Don't be an idiot," the Doctor blustered. "Cracks from the reality bomb are closing, but there are still a few open that we can take advantage of to get you… back." He seemed unwilling to say 'home.' He glanced at Rose for a moment before he said, "if that's what you want."

"I've got a girl waiting for me back there, Doctor," Mickey said, "a job, a life. Take me home."

The Doctor looked briefly at Sherlock before he nodded. "Rose," he called, "come give me a hand here."

Rose ran up to the console and he put her to work pressing buttons and pulling levers in the proper order. Sherlock kept his face impassive as the Doctor placed his hands possessively on her waist or hip, or stood behind her in what was, to Sherlock's eyes, an excessively intimate position.

The trip was much shakier than the one to London. Everyone was thrown to the floor, the Doctor and Rose laughing like mad people as they were. When the shaking and jostling stopped, the Doctor bounced up and offered a hand to Rose to pull her up.

"Just like old times, eh Rose?"

"Just like," she said with a grin. She released his hand and stroked a coral strut as she walked past. "Thanks old girl," she murmured and led the way out the doors and onto a windswept beach.


	38. Rose's Choice

**Oh my dear sweet readers, we have come to the end of this journey. It's been lovely, and I hope you don't hate me at the end of it! **

**Check out the A/N at the end for post-fic housekeeping!**

* * *

The moment Rose stepped out of the TARDIS, her heart seemed to seize. They stood on the site of one of her worst memories and, though she had suspected they might land there (Bad Wolf and all), she had hoped, had prayed that they would land in London or Cardiff or literally any other place on her blue-green world but this one.

Rose noticed that there was a black, Torchwood-issue Land Rover at the end of the beach around which stood Martha, Gwen, Jake and, off to the side, Mycroft, but her whole perception was, for the moment, consumed by the two men who stood on either side of her.

"So…" the Doctor began, and from behind him Donna huffed. "I guess this is goodbye… unless…"

Rose cocked her head, the echo of another voice in her ears. "Unless?"

"You don't have to stay, Rose. You could come with me."

Rose was transported to another time and another place, and another face superimposed itself over the one she was looking at. She found herself asking the same thing she'd asked then. "Is it always this dangerous?"

"It doesn't have to be, Rose."

With those words, the old images vanished and they were back on the cold beach, and he was still not being honest with her.

"And what about River Song, Doctor? What happens when you meet your wife?"

The Doctor's eyes went wide and his face went pale. "How do you…" he stuttered.

"Donna, and the TARDIS. The TARDIS told me that she is your destiny, your fate. Donna told me that she's funny and brave and very clever, and she loves you so much that she died for you."

"I don't believe in fate," the Doctor bit out.

Rose smiled dryly. "It believes in you."

"I've watched her die!"

"But it sounds to me like you will live first."

"It could be ages, Rose. Centuries."

"And I could come with you first," she agreed. "You and I could run, like we always did. We could see the universe together again." As she spoke, the Doctor's face began to look lighter. "Until the day that I can't run anymore. Until the day that I put my foot wrong or don't see the oncoming danger, or am not quite fast enough and I don't make it back to the TARDIS and you have to bury me on some planet a universe away from my home with no one to mourn or memorialise me but you."

"Rose…"

"But, do you know something? It'd be worth it. The universe, the stars, and you most of all. That's what would make it worth it, but I have to know something first. Will you tell me?"

"Anything."

"Do you remember the last time we stood on this beach? It was the worst day of my life. Do you remember the last words you said to me?"

The Doctor's face suddenly became wary. "I said 'Rose Tyler.'"

"And how was that sentence going to end, Doctor?"

The Doctor stood for a long moment, his mouth slightly open, staring at Rose. The universe itself seemed to hold its breath as he hesitated.

"Does it need saying?"

Rose's eyes filled with tears. He was the consummate coward, even now.

"Yes, Doctor. It does need saying. But not by you. I hope… I hope that when you meet River Song that you fall madly in love with her and it is a love like the storybooks. I hope you dance across the stars together. I hope, when you finally find her that you tell her you love her every day. Because it does need saying. Goodbye, Doctor."

The Doctor's face did not fall. He did not crumple in on himself, but she could see every door in himself slamming shut, blocking out the world. He stood, looking at her for a long moment, as he had once before- waiting for her to change her mind.

When she remained still, the Doctor turned and, without a word, began to trudge back to his ship, Donna at his side. After a few steps, however, he turned again.

"And…" the Doctor did not say a name, but his brown eyes flickered over to the dark-haired man who stood behind Rose and watched the exchange with an impassive face.

"What about him?"

"He's dangerous, Rose."

"As are you, Doctor."

"He destroyed the Daleks. He committed genocide!"

"As have I." Rose's voice was soft, but there was power behind those words, and the Doctor seemed to hear them echoed through time.

"He…" the Doctor trailed off.

"He's a man full of war and rage and darkness, but also light and peace and wonder. Really, Doctor, he reminds me of someone I met… oh so long ago. A man with war in his hearts who grabbed the hand of an ordinary girl and told her to run."

"You made me better. I needed you then." His eyes flicked to Sherlock again, and his next words were directed at that man, rather than at the woman between them. "Needing you is very… me."

"And loving you is very… me." Rose felt Sherlock shift behind her, but kept her attention on the Doctor.

The Doctor nodded and turned toward his ship again. His face was not quite as heavy, his back not quite as bent.

When he reached the doors, however, Rose could not stop herself and she called out to him. "Doctor!"

He turned, the faintest light of hope in his dark eyes.

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock watched Rose watching the TARDIS go. She was right. It needed saying. It was finally time.

As the timeship disappeared, he walked to her side and took her hand. She laced her fingers in-between his own and he felt his heart lurch. What she'd said to the Doctor about loving him… but he thought they had not been talking about the Doctor at that point, not really. He had to know.

He turned to face her, and pulled her around to face him. She looked down to hide her tears from him, but he knew. He took his free hand and tipped her face up to his.

"Rose Tyler," he murmured, and he felt her shiver just slightly. "I'm no poet. In fact, I'm a bit of an arse." She smiled, but his face remained serious. "I have always believed that love was a perversion of the perfect logic by which I lived, but you changed that. You changed me.

"I don't deserve you, your kindness, your compassion, or your goodness, but the best thing about me is that you have given them to me, old sinner that I am. I would spend my life trying to deserve them and never achieve it.

"I will never be a gentle, thoughtful, easy man. I will forget your birthday, I will be rude and impossible and never treat you as well as you deserve. I will never be the man that should have you. But I will be the man that you chose, and that choice is the greatest gift any person has ever given me.

"The only thing I can give back to you is this: Rose Tyler, I love you."

The smile that broke over her face could have lit the heavens. Without a word she pulled him down and fitted her mouth over his in a kiss that tasted of nothing so much as hope.

"Not a poet my left foot," she said when finally she released him.

"That's… not the typical response," Sherlock said, shaking himself from the daze her kiss had put him into.

"Isn't it? I didn't think this was your area."

"I've been studying to make it my area."

"So what is the typical response, Sherlock Holmes? I'd hate to be atypical."

"Well," Sherlock said, wrapping an arm around her waist to bring her close to him. "I say 'I love you,' and then you say 'I love you too.'"

"And then?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not really sure what comes next. I suppose we make it up from there."

"All right then, give me my cue again."

Sherlock smiled. "Rose Tyler, I love you."

Rose grinned. "And Sherlock Holmes, I love you too."

Sherlock bent his head to capture her lips again.

~?~?~?~?~

Mycroft huffed as he watched the pair on the beach. England was in peril and he needed his brother to do the leg-work to sort it out while he did the brain-work, but the man was, instead, kissing some woman on the beach.

It would never do. Mycroft gathered himself up to cross the beach and end this foolishness but, before he'd taken two steps, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and he found himself looking up in to the smiling face of the blonde man who had introduced himself as 'Jake' in a London accent overlaid with both Welsh and Irish.

"How about you let them finish their conversation, aye?"

"That is no conversation," Mycroft sneered.

"Whatever it is, it'd be polite if you let them finish without interrupting, don't you think?"

"I beg your pardon? What I have to say concerns the fate of England!"

"And what's happening over there concerns Rose Tyler's happiness. Your brother's too, unless I miss my mark. Now, I understand that you're a clever man, so understand this. I will not see petty politics get in the way of her happiness, not again. So you will stay here, or I will make you do so."

The man never raised his voice, but there was a rather terrible power behind his words, and Mycroft was cowed. He did not show on his face that he was nervous, but affected an air of haughty disdain, as though he hadn't really wanted to stop his brother at all.

In his heart, however, Mycroft sighed. He supposed he could give Sherlock this moment. He would be sending his brother to Russia for the duration, and Rose Tyler would be forced to remain in hiding so, if he were honest, he supposed that they deserved one final kiss in the sun before the rug was pulled out from under them again.

* * *

**A small number of post-fic cleanup things:**

**I will be publishing a bit of a follow-up to this on my blog. It's not fic, it's meta, but if you'd like to know some of my feelings on why I ended things this way, please check me out on Tumblr. My handle is AsTheWheelWills.**

**There is more coming! Next up will be a series of one-shots titled A Season Between that peeks in on everyone to see what they are up to in the time between Bad Wolf Bay II and the start of Sherlock Season 3. I can't tell you when I'll start writing my treatments of S3, but they will come out as I have them. If you want fairly regular updates on my writing process, follow me on Tumblr and you'll get loads of those, as well as random thoughts and pictures of David Tennant's backside.**

**Go read WhoLockGal's stories, they are always fantastic. SquirrelWho as well- they'll tide you over with RoseLock while I'm away.**

**Finally, thank you all. For those of you who read all of this, you are absolute stars and I love each and every one of you. I'd give you hugs if I could! This has been such fun for me!**


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